I;:;!  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA   SAN  DIEGO 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SAN  DIEGO 


3  1822  01958  8979 


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A   CREEL  OF  IRISH  STORIES 


"'Oov*  KXopv,  Xiir6|i«rfl'  •  8<ro  8'  ovx  2Xojwv,  <|>€po|i«rOtt." 


Creel  of  Irish  Stories 


BY 


^JANE   BARLOW 

Author  of  "Irish  Idylls,"  "  Bog- Land  Studies,"  "  Mrs.  Martin's  Company," 

"  Kerrigan's  Quality,"  "•  The  End  of  Elfintown," 

etc.,  etc. 


NEW   YORK 
DODD,  MEAD   AND   COMPANY 

1898 


Presswork  bv 
University  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A. 


TO 


J.  W.  B. 


CONTENTS 


THE   KEYS   OF   THE   CHEST 
A   DESERTED   CHILD 
AN   ACCOUNT   SETTLED 
M'NEILLS'   TIGER-SHEEP 
THE   SNAKES   AND    NORAH 
THREE    PINT    MEASURES 
THE   SURREE   AT   MAHON'S 
THE   SHORTEST   WAY       . 
THE   STAY-AT-HOMES       . 
A   PROUD   WOMAN  , 


PACK 
I 

97 
125 
155 
185 
211 
231 

253 
271 

299 


THE    KEYS    OF    THE    CHEST 


THE   KEYS  OF  THE  CHEST 

THE  little  valley  of  Letterglas  is  a  very- 
green  and  very  lonesome  place  almost 
always,  for  snow  seldom  lies  on  it,  and  the 
few  people  who  come  into  it  depart  again  even 
sooner  and  as  tracelessly,  so  that  its  much 
grass  spreads  from  month  to  month  uncovered 
and  untrodden.  It  runs  westward — that  is, 
towards  the  ocean — but  never  reaches  the  shore, 
because  a  great  grassy  curtain  intervenes, 
curved  round  the  end  of  it,  and  prolonged  in 
the  lower  hill-ranges  that  bound  it  to  north  and 
south.  They  are  just  swarded  embankments 
of  most  simple  construction,  with  scarcely  a 
fold  to  complicate  the  sweep  of  their  smooth 
green  slopes,  and  the  outline  of  their  ridge 
against  the  sky  undulates  as  softly  as  young 
corn  in  a  drowsy  breeze.  Only  at  one  point 
— about  midway  on  the  right  hand  looking 
westward — it  is  suddenly  broken  by  a  sharp 
dip  down  and  up  again,  making  a  gap  like 
an  inverted  Gothic  arch.  And  this  is  called 
by  everybody  the  Nick  of  Time.  I  once  asked 
the  reason  of  a  gossoon  who  was  guiding  me 
3 


4        A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

over  the  opposite  hills,  but  he  replied  :  "  Sure, 
what  else  would  they  be  callin'  it  ? "  Nor 
have  I  ever  yet  lighted  upon  a  more  satis- 
factory explanation. 

The  effect  of  Letterglas's  solitude  and 
verdure  somehow  seems  to  be  heightened  if 
one  notices  its  single  visible  sign  of  human 
handiwork.  This  is  a  road-track,  now  all  but 
quite  grassed  over,  leading  into  the  valley 
from  its  open  end,  where  the  Clonmoragh 
highway  passes,  and  stopping  aimlessly  at  the 
slope  immediately  below  the  Nick,  having  first 
flung  two  or  three  zig-zag  loops  up  the  hill- 
side. A  rust-eaten,  handleless  shovel,  and  the 
wreck  of  an  overturned  wheelbarrow,  still  mark 
the  point  where  the  work  was  abandoned  on 
a  misty  morning  in  April,  more  than  fifty 
springs  ago ;  but  the  track  itself  is  now 
merely  a  most  faint  difference  of  shade  in  the 
sward,  which  has  crept  back  again  indefatig- 
ably,  even  where  the  austere  road-metal  had 
been  thrown  clattering  down. 

A  day  before  that  misty  morning,  if  any- 
body had  climbed  up  and  had  passed  through 
the  Nick  of  Time,  in  at  which  the  new  road 
was  to  go,  he  would  have  found  himself  on 
a  long  level  of  fine-bladed  turf,  stretching  like 


THE    KEYS    OF   THE    CHEST         5 

a  lofty  causeway  laid  down  atop  of  the  hill- 
embankment.  Everything  else  up  there  looked 
so'  softly  smooth  and  flecklessly  green  that 
the  eye  was  at  once  caught  by  a  big  block 
of  stone,  which  stood  just  opposite  the  gap, 
at  a  few  yards'  distance.  It  was  an  oblong 
mass  of  blackish  limestone,  perhaps  seven 
feet  by  four,  with  a  shape  curiously  sym- 
metrical for  a  piece  of  Nature's  rough-hewing ; 
plumb-and-rule  guided  chisel  could  scarcely 
have  made  its  lines  truer.  That,  and  its 
solitariness,  uncom_panioned  as  far  as  could  be 
seen  by  so  much  as  a  single  pebble,  gave  its 
aspect  an  incongruity  which  prompted  the 
question  how  it  had  come  there ;  for  whose 
answer  we  must  revert  through  unimaginable 
wastes  of  years  to  the  time  when  our  last 
huge  ice-sheet  was  scoring  and  grinding  all 
the  country's  face  on  its  slithering  way  to  the 
western  ocean.  Then  it  was  that  this  big 
boulder  dropped  fortuitously  through  a  small 
rent  in  the  isle-wide  coverlid,  and  so  being 
left  behind  did  not  share  in  the  final  welter- 
ing plunge  a  few  miles  farther  on,  where  the 
stark  folds  slipped  over  the  sea-cliffs  like  the 
counterpane  off  a  restless  sleeper's  bed.  Ever 
since  that  catastrophe  it  had  sat  there  looking 


6        A    CREEL    OF   IRISH    STORIES 

rather  like  a  rude  unwieldy  coffer  or  chest,  a 
portion — as  in  fact  it  had  been — of  the  im- 
pedimenta carried  and  lost  by  some  Titanic 
traveller.  The  resemblance  was  increased  by 
a  clean-cut  horizontal  crack,  no  doubt  sus- 
tained when  the  mass  came  sagging  heavily 
to  earth,  which  ran  all  round  it,  a  few  inches 
from  the  top,  counterfeiting  a  lid.  All  the 
old  ages  that  had  passed  over  it  afterwards 
had  wrought  only  slight  changes  in  its  aspect. 
As  the  years  went  on,  the  dark  peaty  mould 
deepened  a  little  about  its  base,  and  dull 
golden  and  silvery  lichen-circlets  crept  out 
here  and  there  like  wraiths  of  the  sun  and 
moon  beams  that  had  touched  it.  Otherwise 
it  was  unaltered,  and  for  many  a  long  century 
so  were  its  surroundings. 

But  at  last  a  new  feature  appeared  among 
them ;  a  very  inobtrusive  one.  Fifty  years 
ago,  anybody  approaching  the  big  stone  from 
the  Nick  of  Time  might  have  observed  that  a 
little  footpath  led  up  to  it  from  the  contrary 
direction,  and  went  no  farther.  A  more  in- 
artificial path  could  not  well  be :  a  simple 
product  of  steps  going  to  and  fro.  You 
might  have  supposed  a  sheep-walk,  only  that 
there  were  no  fleeces  nibbling  over  Letterglas. 


THE    KEYS    OF   THE    CHEST         7 

Indeed,  its  most  frequent  passers-by  being 
such  promiscuous  wayfarers  as  the  shadows  of 
wings  and  clouds,  it  was  not  easy  to  conjec- 
ture any  plausible  raison  d'etre  for  this  track, 
which  ran  distinctly  defined,  though  faintly, 
merely  a  crease  in  the  flowing  sward  mantle, 
not  a  seam  worn  threadbare,  so  to  speak, 
through  to  the  brown  earth.  Certainly  the 
rather  gloomy-looking  block  had  no  apparent 
attractions  wherewith  to  invite  resort,  not  even 
a  view,  as  it  stood  at  the  bottom  of  a  very 
shallow  dent  in  the  green.  Yet  there  the  path 
ended ;  and  if  you  took  a  dozen  steps  to  the 
brow  of  the  hill,  you  could  trace  the  course 
of  that  pale  thin  line  far  down  the  slopes ; 
through  the  fenceless  "  mountainy  land "  first, 
and  then  into  two  or  three  steep,  dyke- 
girdled  fields,  before  it  was  lost  among  the 
round-topped  trees  which  gathered  about  a 
rambling  old  mansion-house.  Whoever  visited 
the  big  stone  evidently  thought  it  worth 
while  to  come  a  long  way. 

Such  an  humble  and  artless  path  has 
always  a  certain  element  of  romance  about 
it,  lacking  in  more  pretentious  thoroughfares 
contracted  for  at  so  much  a  mile.  They 
differ   as   does   a  brook    from   a   canal.      Like 


8        A    CREEL    OF   IRISH    STORIES 

the  brook,  which  has  wrought  itself  as  it 
went  along,  with  and  by  its  own  purpose, 
the  little  footpath  has  some  special  meaning 
and  object,  albeit  perhaps  a  less  obvious  one. 
It  is  the  visible  trail  of  a  want  or  wish, 
though  of  what  kind  we  may  be  unaware, 
and  with  want  or  wish  it  will  cease  to  exist, 
or  soon  after.  For  the  living  green  things 
will  creep  back  and  efface  it  speedily.  But 
meanwhile  it  seems  half  to  keep  and  half  to 
betray  a  secret:  you  can  only  guess  what 
has  brought  feet  thither  day  by  day  to  tread 
it  out 


Fifty  years  ago  or  more,  you  would  have 
been  likely  enough  any  fine  morning  to  catch 
the  chief  maker  of  this  particular  path  in  the 
act  If  the  years  were,  say,  ten  more,  it 
would  have  proved  to  be  a  very  little  little- 
girl,  whose  brown  hair  held  both  sunshine  and 
shadow,  and  whose  hazel-green  eyes  were 
softly  lit,  and  who  in  those  early  days  of 
hers  always  wore  an  ugly  reddish  checked 
pelisse,  and  a  broad-brimmed  straw  hat  with 
velvet  rosettes  to  match.  This  was  little 
Eileen    Fitzmaurice,   six    or    seven   years    old, 


THE    KEYS    OF   THE    CHEST        9 

who,  ever  since  she  could  recollect  anything, 
and  maybe  some  twelve  months  longer,  had 
lived  with  her  mother  and  aunt  at  the  Big 
House  in  Glendoula.  As  you  would,  no  doubt, 
never  guess  her  errand  up  the  side  of  Slieve 
Ardgreine,  I  will  at  once  explain  that  she  was 
seeing  after  the  safety  of  her  family  plate. 

Although  Eileen  had  herself  no  recollection 
of  anywhere  else  than  this  Glendoula,  a  valley 
much  resembling  its  neighbour  Letterglas,  but 
with  its  green  dotted  and  chequered  by  a  few 
cabins  and  fields,  she  knew  by  hearsay  that 
there  was  another  place  in  the  world,  a  most 
wonderful  place  called  Drumlough  Castle  or 
At  Home,  where  "there  wouldn't  be  as  much 
as  a  wing  of  a  cold  chicken  served  in  the 
parlour  without  its  silver  dish  under  it,  and 
as  for  the  ould  black  sideboard  of  an  evenin' 
there  would  be  company  in  it,  that  now  was 
somethin'  worth  lookin'  at ;  the  full  moon  on 
a  dark  night  was  a  joke  to  the  big  salvers." 
To  be  sure  there  were  there  other  fine  things 
innumerable,  which  would  have  appealed  quite 
as  strongly  to  her  imagination,  if  they  had 
had  equal  justice  done  to  them ;  however, 
it  was  upon  these  that  Eileen's  informant 
always  laid    most   stress,   for   she   looked  back 


lo      A    CREEL    OF   IRISH    STORIES 

to  her  ancient  home  through  the  eyes  of  old 
Timothy  Gabbett,  the  lame  butler,  whose 
pride  and  affection  had  dwelt  in  his  pantry 
and  plate  -  chest,  enjoying  their  supreme 
moments  before  a  gala-night  spectacle  of  snowy 
and  crystal  and  lustrous  argent  gleams. 

Yet  this  paradise,  of  which  old  Timothy 
used  to  say  mournfully,  "  Ah,  Miss  Eileen, 
them  was  the  rael  times,"  was  haunted  by 
lurking  shadows.  Eileen  never  learned  the 
true  reason  of  their  exile :  how  wild  Sir 
Gerald,  her  father,  had  been  found  one  summer 
morning  entangled  among  the  serpentine  coils 
of  the  water-weeds  at  the  end  of  the  lake, 
with  his  only  son  and  heir  dead  in  his  arms, 
three-year-old  Jack,  who,  when  told  by  the 
garden-boy  Mick  that  the  master  was  looking 
for  him  high  ways  and  low  ways,  had  stumped 
off  greatly  elated,  with  no  foreboding  of  the 
method  in  which  Sir  Gerald  had  resolved  to 
settle  his  grievously  involved  affairs.  She 
had  been  too  small  a  baby  then  to  be  con- 
scious of  her  mother's  flight  from  the  memories 
of  Drumlough,  and  the  circumstances  of  their 
coming  to  Glendoula  remained  for  her  in 
their  original  obscurity.  But  she  very  quickly 
perceived   that   it   was   worse   than    useless    to 


THE    KEYS    OF   THE    CHEST       ii 

ask  questions  on  such  subjects  of  anybody 
except  old  Timothy,  and  that  any  allusion 
to  his  stories  in  the  presence  of  her  elders 
was  a  grave  misdemeanour,  which  made  her 
invalid  mother  cry,  and  her  melancholy  aunt 
scold ;  and  Eileen  would  have  desisted  at  a 
subtler  hint.  She  did  not  often  wonder  why 
this  should  be,  because  her  world  was  so  full 
of  mysteries  that  she  generally  accepted  their 
existence  as  a  matter  of  course.  There  was 
just  one  of  them,  however,  that  exercised  her 
mind  not  a  little,  and  that  she  sometimes 
vainly  tried  to  get  cleared  up.  She  wanted 
to  know  what  had  become  of  all  those  most 
beautiful  silver  things  that  Timothy  talked 
about  —  the  great  shining  salvers,  the  claret- 
jugs,  the  tankards  and  flagons,  the  piles  "as 
high  as  your  head,  Miss  Eileen,"  of  plates 
with  a  polish  on  them  "  the  stars  in  the  sky 
might  be  the  betther  of  gettin',"  and  the 
grand  potato-rings,  and  the  frosted  cake- 
baskets,  and  the  tall  up-urny,  which  seemed 
to  be  a  marvellous  composition  of  lights  and 
flowers.  Of  all  these  resplendent  objects,  the 
only  one,  a  few  uninteresting  spoons  and  forks 
excepted,  that  apparently  had  moved  with  the 
family   to   Glendoula,   was   an    antique    teapot 


12       A    CREEL    OF   IRISH    STORIES 

of  fantastic  shape.  It  could  no  longer  be 
used  for  its  proper  purpose,  owing  to  the 
infirmity  of  its  dragon-tail  handle,  but  old 
Timothy  turned  it  to  account  in  his  own  way. 
You  would  always  have  been  warned  that 
it  was  Quality — and  Quality  was  almost  in- 
variably either  Dr  M'Clintock  or  Canon  Roche 
— who  had  called  at  Glendoula  House  had 
you  seen  Timothy  hobbling  to  answer  the 
bell.  For,  having  reconnoitred  through  the 
half-glass  back-hall  door,  it  was  his  practice 
in  such  cases  to  equip  himself  with  the  old 
teapot  and  a  bit  of  "  shammy,"  that  he  might 
appear  rubbing  up  ostentatiously,  and  mutter- 
ing a  stereotyped  apology :  "  Beg  your  pardon, 
sir,  but  there  does  be  such  a  terrible  sight 
of  silver  clanin'  in  this  house  that  I  scarce 
git  time  to  lay  a  bit  out  of  me  hand."  All 
the  while  he  felt  more  than  half- conscious 
that  it  was  a  poor  and  rather  unseemly 
pretence ;  but  he  had  not  much  invention, 
and  could  devise  no  better  expedient  for  the 
magnifying  of  his  diminished  office  and  the 
upholding  of  the  family's  fallen  fortune.  Nor 
was  he  ready  with  any  very  satisfactory 
answers  when  Eileen  questioned  him  about 
the   present  bestowal   of   his    treasures.      Full 


THE    KEYS    OF   THE    CHEST       13 

well  he  knew  that  they  had  long  since  gone 
to  the  Jews  and  other  hopeless  destinations, 
and  were  by  this  time  irrecognisably  melted 
down,  or,  more  intolerable  still,  adorning  alien 
boards,  and  subject  to  alien  powder  and 
brushes.  This  knowledge  gave  him  acute 
pangs,  which  made  his  replies  curt  and  vague. 
*'  Where  are  they  now,  Miss  Eily  ?  Ah,  sure, 
just  put  away  somewheres  safe ;  they  're  not 
wanted  these  times,  when  the  poor  misthress 
is  seein'  no  company ;  but  it  won't  be  so  one 
of  these  days.  .  .  Ah  no.  Miss  Eily  darlint,  I 
couldn't  be  showin'  them  to  you — sure,  they're 
not  in  this  house  at  all."  And  once  he  added : 
"They're  just  stored  up  handy,  Miss  Eily, 
waitin'  till  you're  grown  a  big  enough  lady 
to  be  ownin'  of  them." 

"Me?"   said  Eileen,  startled. 

"Why,  in  coorse,  Miss  Eileen.  Who  else 
has  anythin'  else  to  say  to  thim  after  poor 
little  Master  Jack,  that  had  a  right  to  ha'  been 
Sir  John,  gettin'  dhrown — bein'  took  suddint,  I 
mane,  that  way?  Hiven  be  good  to  the  both 
of  them.  Ay,  to  be  sure,  honey,  it's  all  in  a 
very  safe  place  waitin'  for  you.  And  thank 'ee 
kindly  for  bringin'  me  in  the  grand  little 
bunch  of  daisies — they  smell  iligant." 


14      A    CREEL    OF   IRISH    STORIES 

After  learning  this  fact  about  her  far-off 
proprietorship  in  the  hoarded  plate,  Eileen 
thought  about  it  oftener  than  ever,  though 
from  motives  of  delicacy  she  spoke  about  it 
seldomer,  lest  she  should  appear  unduly  prying 
and  eager  on  her  own  behalf  And  for  a 
long  time  the  more  she  pondered  the  matter, 
the  less  possible  she  found  it  to  excogitate 
any  possible  hiding-place.  But  at  last  she 
made  a  fateful  discovery. 


It  was  one  fine  May  morning  when  she 
went  for  an  unusually  long  ramble  with  Norah 
Kinsella,  the  housemaid.  Norah  —  a  tall, 
strong,  cheerful  lass,  far  more  active  than 
rheumatic  old  nurse  —  thought  nothing  of 
carrying  her  pet,  little  Miss  Eileen,  who  at 
six  years  old  was  still  only  "a  light  fairy  of 
a  crathur,"  up  and  down  steep  places,  so  that 
they  could  go  all  the  farther.  On  this  occasion 
they  climbed  right  up  to  the  top  of  the  hill 
behind  the  house,  higher  than  Eileen  had  ever 
been  before ;  and  one  of  the  first  things  she 
noticed  was  the  great  boulder-block.  She 
never  had  seen  a  stone  of  nearly  so  large  a 
size,  nor  imagined  one ;   and  she  did  not  now 


THE    KEYS    OF   THE    CHEST       15 

class  it  with  the  small  unshapely  fragments 
and  insignificant  pebbles  with  which  she  was 
familiar.  Rather,  it  reminded  her  of  the  turf- 
stacks  that  she  had  watched  people  building 
up  carefully  in  the  yard.  Yet  a  turf-stack 
it  certainly  was  not. 

"Doesn't  it  look  like  a  great  big  box, 
Norah?"   she  said. 

"  Ay,  indeed  does  it,  Miss  Eily,"  Norah  said  ; 
"and  a  fine  power  of  things  it  'ud  hould 
inside  of  itself,  too.  Sure  now,  you  could 
be  puttin'  away  a  one  of  them  little  houses 
down  below  there  in  it,  or  very  nearly." 

"  It  must  be  extrornarly  heavy,  Norah," 
Eileen  said,  patting  the  sun-warmed  side  of 
the  stone  with  her  hand.  "If  that's  its  lid, 
I  couldn't  lift  it." 

"Sorra  a  bit  of  you,  honey,  nor  ten  like 
you.  Troth,  'twould  take  ten  strong  men  to 
give  that  a  heft,"  said  Norah,  making  as  if 
she  would  prise  it  up  with  the  flat  of  her 
hand.  "Whativer  was  inside  it  'ud  have  to 
stay  there  for  you  or  for  me,  if  it  was  silver 
or  gould  itself — we  'd  ha'  ne'er  a  chance." 

Her  random  words  gave  Eileen  the  shock  of 
a  new  idea.  Perhaps  there  really  might  be 
silver,   quantities    of   silver,   in    it.       For  why 


i6      A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

should  not  this  be  the  handy  safe  place  that 
old  Timothy  meant?  A  safer  there  could  not 
well  be,  since  it  was  so  far  removed  from  all 
meddlers ;  and  she  almost  thought  that  she 
did  espy  a  bright  twinkle  as  she  stared  hard 
at  the  lid-like  crack,  which  was  just  on  a  level 
with  her  eyes.  She  discreetly  said  nothing 
about  it  to  Norah,  and  her  pre-occupation  with 
the  subject  made  her  so  abstractedly  silent  on 
their  way  home  that  Norah  feared  the  walk 
must  have  been  too  long.  But,  in  fact,  she 
was  considering  whether  or  no  she  should 
mention  her  discovery  to  old  Timothy.  He 
might  be  vexed,  she  thought,  at  her  finding 
out  what  he  had  refused  to  tell  her:  still,  she 
would  have  liked  to  ask  him  whether  her  guess 
were  right.  The  point  needed  much  delibera- 
tion, and  remained  undecided  for  many  days. 


Meanwhile  she  chanced  upon  something  that 
seemed  to  be  an  independent  corroboration  of 
her  own  theory.  By  nature  Eileen  had  not 
particularly  studious  tastes,  but  solitariness  had 
early  driven  her  to  seek  for  company  on  the 
shelves  in  the  long  low-windowed  book-room. 
She  did   not   find    there   much   that  was  very 


THE    KEYS    OF    THE    CHEST       17 

congenial.  Sixty  years  ago  juvenile  literature 
was,  as  a  rule,  a  solemn  and  dreary  thing ;  and 
Eileen's  meagre  library  was  not  even  up  to 
that  date,  having  for  the  most  part  belonged 
to  the  preceding  generation.  The  favourite 
authors  of  the  day  would  appear  to  have  been 
infested  with  a  mole-like  fancy,  which  com- 
monly led  them  to  linger  among  tombs  and 
worms  and  epitaphs,  seldom,  indeed,  stopping 
short  at  those  grisly  precincts,  or  forbearing 
to  light  them  up  with  a  lurid  flare  from  the 
regions  beyond,  but,  nevertheless,  dwelling 
upon  them  with  a  fond  elaboration  of  detail. 
Accordingly,  a  few  days  after  her  first  ascent 
of  Slieve  Ardgreine,  Eileen  fished  down  from 
its  shelf  a  small,  old  dusty,  half-calf  volume, 
which  was  composed  of  several  short  stories 
bound  together.  One  of  them,  entitled  The 
Churchyard  Prattler^  related  the  experiences 
of  a  child,  aged  four,  who,  as  an  appropriate 
and  improving  pastime,  was  sent  out  provided 
with  a  string  of  his  own  length,  and  instructed 
to  ascertain  by  measurement  how  many  of 
the  graves  in  his  cheerfully  chosen  playground 
were  shorter  than  himself  He  was  pictorially 
represented  as  attired  in  a  long  bib  and  a 
broad  -  brimmed    chimney  -  pot     hat,     and     he 


i8      A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

moralised  his  lively  researches  into  the  strains 
of  a  brief  rime-doggerel  hymn : 

**  Oft  may  be  found 
A  grassy  mound 
By  the  yew-tree^ 
Much  less  than  me; 
It  seems  to  cry: 
Prepare  to  die!" 

Another  showed  how  a  frivolous  little  girl, 
in  a  huge  coal-scuttle  bonnet,  had  her  sinful 
hankering  after  toys  and  such  vanities  rebuked 
by  being  conducted  past  a  series  of  attractive 
shop-windows,  from  each  of  which  she  was 
bidden  to  select  herself  a  present,  until  she 
arrived  at  an  undertaker's  establishment,  where 
she  was  likewise  required  to  place  an  order. 

The  last  story  in  the  volume,  however,  was 
of  a  very  different  type,  and  upon  it  Eileen 
now  alighted,  instinctively  judicious  in  her 
skipping  of  its  ghoulish  companions.  It  was 
called  The  Glittering  Hoard  in  the  Coffer  of 
Stone  \  and  the  passage  that  most  profoundly 
impressed  her  ran  as  follows :  "  The  flare  of  the 
scented  torches  fell  upon  the  vast  coffer  of 
dark  stone,  which  stood  in  one  corner  of  the 
cavern.  Its  smooth  sides  were  crusted  here 
and  there  with  patches  of  lichen  and  grey 
moss,  and  it  looked  as  if  no  hand  had  touched 


THE    KEYS    OF   THE    CHEST       19 

it  for  many  an  age.  But  at  a  gesture  from  the 
Prince,  six  gigantic  black  slaves  raised  up  the 
massive  slab  which  formed  its  lid.  As  they 
did  so,  the  foot  of  one  of  them  slipped,  and 
before  he  could  recover  himself,  the  unwieldy 
weight  slid  down  with  a  crash,  and  was 
shattered  into  three  fragments  on  the  floor. 
Nobody  heeded,  however,  for  the  light  that 
broke  out  of  the  open  chest  drew  all  eyes 
thither.  It  was  like  a  cistern  filled  with 
crystalline  fire.  "  Empty  it,  my  son,"  said  the 
old  Sultaness,  and  the  Prince  began  to  lift  out 
one  by  one  the  treasures  it  contained.  Silver 
goblets  there  were  and  flagons,  great  gilt  bowls 
and  ewers,  filigree  caskets  set  with  diamonds, 
chains  of  red  gold,  and  ropes  of  milk-white 
pearls,  diadems  and  necklaces,  armlets  and 
girdles,  whose  pendant  gems  dripped  a  many- 
coloured  brilliance,  as  of  flower-distained  dew. 
At  the  bottom  of  the  chest  lay  a  round  golden 
buckler,  studded  with  knots  of  jewels,  and  a 
mighty  sword  in  an  ivory  scabbard  inlaid  with 
pale  coral  and  amber :  the  hilt  was  carved  out 
of  a  single  lump  of  apple-green  chrysoprase. 
All  these,  strewn  over  the  flagged  floor, 
shimmered  and  bickered  under  the  glancing 
torch-gleams,   until   it   seemed   as   if  a  rippled 


20      A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

and  moon-lit  sea  lay  there  flashing  around 
a  murky  rock.  The  beholder  could  hardly 
realise  that  its  uncouth  bulk  had  indeed  been 
the  receptacle  of  a  treasure  so  richly  wrought 
and  exquisite." 

Eileen  read  and  pored  over  this  account 
with  keen  interest  and  pleasure.  From  the 
first  she  drew  a  parallel  between  the  two  great 
blocks  of  stone,  so  that  the  wealth  disclosed 
by  the  one  strengthened  her  most  splendid 
conjectures  about  the  other.  As  she  read,  she 
easily  shifted  the  scene  from  the  shadowy 
cavern  to  the  sunny  hill-top,  and  imagined  the 
grass  all  scattered  over  with  shining  gear,  which 
by  some  strange  decree  of  fortune  she  was  to 
look  upon  as  her  own  property.  Silver  dishes 
and  jewelled  diadems,  the  up-urny  and  the 
buckler,  both  these  alike  fascinatingly  mysteri- 
ous, sparkled  for  her  in  the  clear  light  of  day. 
The  only  objects  in  the  picture  that  she  shrank 
from  reproducing  were  those  six  gigantic  black 
men,  whose  presence  she  felt  to  be  an  ugly  blot 
upon  the  brightness.  But  then  she  reflected 
that  the  lifters  of  the  lid  perhaps  need  not 
be  either  black  or  gigantic.  Dan  Donnelly, 
and  Christy  Shanahan,  and  Murtagh  Reilly, 
would  surely  be  strong  and  big  enough  to  do 


THE    KEYS    OF   THE    CHEST      21 

it ;  and  they  were  all  pleasant  familiar  faces, 
who  said  "  Good  mc«"nin'  to  you  kindly,  Miss 
Eily,"  or  "The  Lord  love  you,"  with  friendly 
smiles,  whenever  they  met  her,  and  were  in  no 
wise  alarming.  So  she  substituted  them  for  the 
formidable  figures,  and  could  almost  hear  old 
Murtagh  saying,  "  Hup  boyos  !  or  what  for  was 
yous  aitin'  all  them  pitaties  ? "  which  was  his 
usual  exordium  upon  such  strenuous  occasions. 
****** 

The  next  time  that  she  went  for  a  walk  with 
Norah  Kinsella,  which  happened  soon  after 
this,  in  the  continuance  of  old  nurse's  rheu- 
matism, Eileen  said,  half-scared  at  her  own 
temerity  :  "  Let  us  go  up  again  to  the  big  box  "  ; 
and  she  felt  happy  when  Norah  at  once  assented, 
tacitly  accepting  the  fact  that  a  box  it  was. 
Eileen  wanted  to  see  whether  she  were  tall 
enough  to  look  in,  supposing  the  lid  removed, 
and  she  found,  to  her  gratification,  that  on 
tiptoe  her  stature  sufficed. 

It  was  some  while  longer,  however,  before  she 
ventured  to  touch  upon  it  in  conversation  with 
old  Timothy  ;  nor  did  she  then  make  any  point- 
blank  statement.  She  introduced  the  subject 
allusively  and  implicitly.  "That  is  an  exceedingly 
safe  place  where  you  keep  the  plate  now,  Timothy, 


22      A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

isn't  it  ?  "  she  said  to  him  one  day  when  she  was 
helping  him  to  lay  the  table,  by  following  him 
with  a  little  sheaf  of  spoons  as  he  hobbled 
round  it.  Her  brown  frock  was  hidden  beneath 
a  white  cambric  pinafore,  and  her  large  eyes 
glinted  wistfully  through  a  soft  cloud  of  hair. 

"  It  is  so  bedad,  missy,"  said  the  old  man 
resignedly,   "we've   took   good   care    of   that." 

"  How  many  people  do  you  think  it  would 
take  to  lift  off  the  lid  of  the  chest?"  said 
Eileen. 

"  Is  it  the  led.  Miss  Eily  ?  Troth,  now,  they  'd 
be  bothered  to  do  that  on  us  at  all,  if  they 
was  as  many  as  they  plased,  and  the  kay  of 
it  put  away  out  of  the  raich  of  them — or  the 
likes  of  them,"  old  Timothy  said,  arbitrarily 
blackening  her  colourless  term. 

"  Oh,  then,  it 's  locked  ?  "   said  Eileen. 

"To  be  sure  it  is.  Miss  Eily.  Why  now,  if 
it  wasn't,  you  might  as  well  be  gad'rin'  the 
things  together  handy  for  villins  to  run  away 
wid  thim  convanient.  But  ah,  sure,  you're 
innicent  yet.  Miss  Eily,  and  small  blame  to 
you,  or  you'd  understand  the  raison  of  kays." 

"  So  I  do,  Timothy,"  said  Eileen.  "  It 's 
villins.  But  I  think  I  don't  quite  understand 
the  reason  of  them." 


THE    KEYS    OF   THE    CHEST      23 

She  went  away  pondering.  This  locking  of 
the  chest  compelled  her  to  modify  somewhat 
the  details  of  the  opening  scene.  However, 
she  quickly  re-arranged  them  completely  to  her 
satisfaction,  and  her  fondness  for  visiting  the 
site  of  it  did  not  diminish.  About  this  time 
she  began  to  be  allowed  to  ramble  out  un- 
attended, for  old  nurse  went  invalided  home, 
and  Eileen  had  acquired  the  character  of  a 
quiet,  sensible  child,  not  apt  to  get  into  mischief. 
The  use  she  made  of  her  liberty  was  a  daily 
pilgrimage  up  to  the  big  stone,  where  she 
dreamed  awaj'  many  pleasant  hours,  largely 
occupied  with  plans  for  the  future,  when  she 
should  have  found  that  key.  Sometimes  she 
brought  the  Glittering  Hoard  book  up  with 
her,  and  read  it  there  to  whet  the  edge  of 
anticipation ;  but  in  general  she  was  content 
to  weave  a  dazzling  fabric  out  of  the  material 
supplied  her  by  old  Timothy's  reminiscences. 

Should  anybody  hence  infer  that  Eileen 
Fitzmaurice  must  have  been  in  her  early  youth 
an  avaricious  sort  of  person,  he  cannot  be 
flatly  contradicted ;  for  so  she  was,  in  a  way. 
But  in  a  way  it  was.  Her  theories  about  the 
privileges  of  property  were  peculiar,  and  re- 
strictive.     For  instance,  in  her  definition  "my 


24      A    CREEL    OF   IRISH    STORIES 

own  "  meant  merely  "  promptly  transferable  " ; 
and  the  Paradise  she  supposed  was  a  place 
where  everybody  else  would  like  everything 
that  she  had.  Here,  the  failure  of  her  few 
possessions  to  please  other  people  not  infre- 
quently caused  her  disappointment ;  and  she 
occasionally  thought  scorn  of  herself  for  having 
only  trifles  to  offer  so  scant  and  paltry.  Some- 
times, indeed,  it  was  nothing  better  than  a 
bunch  or  so  of  blackberries,  perhaps  wanting 
still  several  shades  of  their  mature  glossy  jet, 
which  she  had  torn  hands  as  well  as  frock  in 
extricating  from  among  their  barbed  briers — 
the  greediest  child  never  plucked  with  a  more 
eager  recklessness.  When  she  could  meet 
with  no  friend  who  was  imprudent  or  com- 
plaisant enough  to  accept  these  spoils,  she 
would,  a  little  crestfallen  and  regretful,  scatter 
them  on  some  walk  or  window-stool,  in  hopes 
that  at  least  the  small  birds  might  condescend 
to  benefit  thereby.  She  was  all  the  more 
dependent  upon  opportunities  for  bestowing 
such  a  tangible  proof  of  her  regard,  because 
she  seldom  had  any  for  others  of  the  less  material 
kind.  Her  mother  was  too  drearily  isolated 
by  ill-health  and  despondency  to  be  within 
reach  of  caresses,  while  her  aunt  Geraldine  was 


THE    KEYS    OF   THE    CHEST       25 

mostly  absent,  inhabiting  some  remote  volume, 
and  seemed  to  be  rather  bored  by  the  people 
whom  she  encountered  in  her  brief  visits  to 
the  outer  world.  The  acquisition  of  the 
wonderful  chest,  however,  would  release  Eileen 
from  these  straitened  circumstances,  as  its 
contents  would  surely  comprise  what  could 
not  but  give  satisfaction  to  all.  She  could 
scarcely  believe  that  anybody,  not  even  poor 
mamma,  who  only  pretended  so  badly  to  care 
about  her  presents  of  wild  flowers  and  the 
like,  could  really  be  indifferent  to  the  set  of 
six  little  silver  salt-cellars  shaped  like  water- 
lilies,  which  old  Timothy  described  so  fondly. 
It  might  be  possible  also  to  provide  Aunt 
Geraldine  with  something  of  which  she  should 
not  say  hurriedly,  coming  reluctantly  out  of  her 
book :  "  Oh,  thank  you,  my  dear  child,  but 
what  use  would  it  be  to  mef"  Then  there 
were  Norah  Kinsella,  and  old  nurse,  and  old 
Timothy,  and  after  them  a  small  crowd  of 
neighbours,  very  adequately  representing  the 
population  of  Glendoula,  so  catholic  being 
Eileen's  good  will  that  there  was  hardly  a 
dresser  in  the  hamlet  on  which  some  brilliant 
object  should  fail  to  shine.  And  if  anything 
remained  over  after  the  distribution,  she  thought 


26      A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

to  herself  that  she  would  leave  it  for  the 
vilHns,  who  would  no  doubt  be  much  dis- 
appointed, supposing  they  ever  did  come  to 
look  and  found  nothing  at  all.  Such  plans  as 
these  were  commonly  in  her  mind  as  she  toiled 
up  and  trotted  down  the  smooth-swarded  steps, 
where  the  thread-like  track  of  her  footsteps 
slowly  began  to  follow  them. 


Generally  Eileen  went  to  and  fro  quite 
alone  beneath  the  spacious  domed  skies,  which 
seemed  to  make  no  more  account  of  her 
than  of  the  rabbits,  who  played  here  and 
there  on  the  side  of  the  hill.  The  rabbits 
evidently  did  not  think  much  of  her  either, 
and  hid  themselves  when  she  came  near  with- 
out any  great  show  of  flurry  or  fright,  rather 
intimating  by  their  demeanour  that  they  had 
simply  no  wish  to  make  her  acquaintance. 
But  Eileen  used  to  watch  them  wistfully  from 
their  prescribed  distance,  and  think  to  her- 
self that  they  looked  enviably  sociable  and 
friendly  together.  Sometimes,  too,  she  wished 
that  her  tame  robin  would  hop  along  with 
her  farther  than  to  the  end  of  the  holly 
walk,  but  it  never  would ;    and  one  day  the 


THE    KEYS    OF   THE    CHEST       27 

black  cat  ate  it,  all  except  a  fluff  of 
heart-rending  feathers,  no  doubt  to  warn  her 
that  her  desires  were  vain.  For  destiny  had 
assigned  her  little  intercouse  with  her  fellow- 
creatures. 

Once,  however,  she  had  a  companion  for  a 
while.  It  was  during  her  seventh  summer, 
when  her  cousin  Pierce  Wilmot  spent  his 
holidays  at  Glendoula  House.  Just  at  first 
Eileen  found  this  an  experience  as  alarming 
as  it  was  novel.  Breakfast  and  luncheon 
became  such  serious  ordeals  when  she  had 
to  confront  a  great-sized  stranger — Pierce  was 
about  double  her  age  and  much  more  than 
twice  as  big — concerning  whom  the  furtive 
glances  she  ventured  upon  gave  her  an  im- 
pression of  a  very  black  head,  and  eyebrows 
as  dark  and  straight  as  if  they  had  been 
ruled  with  pen  and  ink.  She  thought  he 
looked  ferocious,  and  privately  inquired  of 
Norah  whether  holidays  were  many  days. 

But  on  the  second  morning,  after  breakfast, 
this  forbidding  person  suddenly  said  to  her : 
"Come  along,  little  Bright-Eyes,  and  show  me 
everything."  At  which  address  her  terror 
culminated,  and  then,  as  terrors  sometimes  do, 
toppled    over    into    nothing    at    all.      A    few 


28      A    CREEL    OF   IRISH    STORIES 

minutes  later  they  were  going  about  together 
quite  amicably  out  of  doors.  Pierce  was  so 
immeasurably  Eileen's  superior  in  age  and  all 
its  privileges  that  he  had  no  need  to  assert 
his  dignity  by  keeping  her  at  a  distance — as 
the  rabbits  did — and  they  fraternised  apace. 
The  July  morning  was  still  freshly  fair,  with 
a  twinkling  trail  of  dew  shifting  along  from 
blade  to  leaf  up  the  sun-lit  sward,  as  the 
moon's  silver-spun  wake  shifts  over  a  rippled 
water,  and  with  gossamer  threads,  that  might 
have  been  ravelled  out  of  a  rainbow,  woven 
between  furze  and  broom  bushes,  when  Eileen 
and  Pierce  began  to  ascend  Slieve  Ardgreine. 
For  one  of  the  first  things  she  had  to  show 
him  was  her  stone  chest.  She  took  an 
especial  pleasure  in  doing  so,  because  she  very 
seldom  had  an  opportunity  of  even  talking 
about  it  to  anybody,  the  matter  being,  she 
felt,  a  family  affair,  which  she  could  not  with 
propriety  enter  upon  except  to  old  confiden- 
tial Timothy,  whose  distaste  for  the  subject 
she  was  bound  to  respect. 

"  Why,  you '//  never  get  up  there,"  Pierce 
said  with  some  incredulity,  when,  in  answer 
to  his  inquiry  whither  he  was  being  taken, 
Eileen  pointed  to  the  ridge  above  their  heads. 


THE    KEYS    OF   THE    CHEST       29 

"  Were  you  ever  up  so  high  ? "  he  asked, 
doubtfully, 

Eileen  would  have  been  very  sorry  to  let 
him  perceive  how  absurd  she  thought  this 
curious  misconception,  and  she  only  replied : 
"Every  fine  day,  if  they  don't  say  the  grass 
is  too  boggy  altogether.  And  old  Murtagh 
says  I  skyte  up  as  fast  as  his  Cruiskeen 
going  after  a  rabbit." 

On  the  way  up,  Eileen  gave  her  companion, 
whose  life  seemed  to  have  been  spent  chiefly 
in  towns,  a  good  deal  of  information  about 
common  natural  objects.  Some  of  this  she 
had  excogitated  for  herself  during  her  solitary 
rambles,  and  it  appeared  to  surprise  and 
amuse  him  rather  unaccountably.  Her  ex- 
planation, for  instance,  of  how  the  hedge- 
hogs came  and  stuck  themselves  over  with 
the  withered  spines  of  the  furze-bushes,  that 
had  dropped  off"  mottled  and  grey.  Among 
other  things  she  showed  him  two  or  three 
rabbit-holes ;  but  here  it  was  Pierce  who  had 
new  facts  to  impart.  "  So  that 's  where  they 
sleep,  is  it  ? "  he  said,  "  I  always  thought  they 
hung  themselves  up  like  bats,  head  down- 
wards against  a  wall ;  at  any  rate,  that 's  how 
they  manage  in  Dublin." 


30      A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

"  That  is  funny,"  said  Eileen  ;  "  I  don't  think 
they  ever  do  herfe.  And  I  suppose  they  drop 
down  when  they  awake?" 

"Oh,  I  rather  fancy  they  never  do  awake," 
said  Pierce. 

"  Never  at  all  ?  Are  you  quite  sure,  now, 
that  they  're  not  dormouses^  Pierce  ? "  said 
Eileen  wisely. 

"  Am  I  sure  that  you  're  not  an  elephant, 
Miss  Eileen  ?  "  he  said,  mimicking  her.  "  But 
I  can  tell  you  that  if  I  can  borrow  a  gun, 
I  *11  soon  teach  your  rabbits  the  same  trick. 
Why,  haven't  you  ever  been  in  a  poulterer's 
shop"  —  Eileen  never  had  —  "and  seen  them 
hanging  up  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  said  Eileen.  She  disliked  guns  and 
shooting,  and  moreover  became  suddenly  aware 
that  she  must  have  displayed  a  ridiculous 
stupidity  about  Pierce's  joke.  This  made  her 
turn  disconcertedly  pink,  so  that  Pierce  was 
afraid  he  must  have  hurt  her  feelings,  which 
he  had  not  meant  to  do.  Therefore  he  was 
glad  to  find,  when  a  few  minutes  afterwards 
they  reached  the  big  stone,  that  she  had 
evidently  quite  forgotten  any  little  vexation 
in  the  excitement  of  relating  its  wonderful 
romance.     He  was  careful  to  listen  with  such 


THE    KEYS    OF   THE    CHEST      31 

interest,  and  seemingly  so  fully  share   all  her 
sentiments,  that  she  very  soon  ventured  upon 
confiding   to   him    a    particular   anxiety  which 
had   of    late    grown    up    in    her    mind.      "  Do 
you  see  what   a   small    keyhole   it   has?"    she 
said,   pointing   to   a   little   round   orifice   which 
occurred   high   up   on   one   side   of  the   block, 
and   the   discovery  of  which   had  been  to  her 
a    source    both   of    hopes    and    fears.      "  Only 
a    tiny    little    pinny    key    would    fit    into    it 
Wouldn't  you   think    it   would    take   a   bigger 
one  to  open  a  box   like  this?"     As  the  hole 
barely   admitted   the   tip   of   her    forefinger,   it 
could    not    be    considered    roomy,  but   Pierce 
replied   with  decision :    "  The    largest    box    in 
the  world  might  be   opened  with  the  smallest 
key  that  ever  was   made " ;    and   one  of   her 
haunting   fears  being   thus   dispelled,  she  pro- 
duced another,  which  took  this  form  :    "  Well, 
but    supposing    the   people    somehow  lost  the 
key,   then    I  suppose  the  box  couldn't  ever  be 
opened    again,    even    if   the    person    that  the 
things  in  it  were  belonging  to  did  live  to  be 
as    much  as   twenty — old    enough    to    be    let 
have   them,   you    know  ? "     And   again   Pierce 
could  re-assure  her.    "  Why,  there  'd  be  nothing 
easier  than   to  get  another   key   made.      One 


32       A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

takes  an  impression  of  the  lock  with  cobbler's 
wax  ;  /  could  do  it  myself.  So  if  they  lose 
it  on  you,  little  Bright-Eyes,  just  send  word 
to  me,  and  I  '11  come  and  settle  it  for  you." 
Eileen  looked  grateful  and  relieved.  "  It 
won't  be  for  a  long  while,  but  I  '11  not  forget," 
she  said. 

As  they  returned  down  the  hill  she  said  :  "  I 
wonder  whether  there  is  that  very  fine  sort  of 
sword  in  this  chest  too.  I  hope  so,  and  perhaps 
there  may  be,  only  old  Timothy  never  told 
me.  I  must  ask  him  about  it,  and  if  there  is 
one.  Pierce,  I  '11  give  it  to  you." 

"  And  then  I  'd  maybe  kill  you  with  it," 
Pierce  said,  absently  joking,  for  just  at  that 
time  he  was  speculating  upon  his  chances  of 
getting  a  shot  at  the  rabbits.  But  Eileen 
replied  quite  solemnly :  "  I  don't  believe  you  'd 
ever  like  to  do  that  on  purpose — at  any  rate, 
not  unless  I  growed  up  very  detestfully  nasty ; 
and  you  're  too  big  to  do  anything  by  accident" 
And  she  proceeded  home,  much  cheered  by 
the  event  of  their  walk. 


Less  satisfactory  was  the  result  of  an  inter- 
view  which   she    had    shortly   afterwards   with 


THE    KEYS    OF    THE    CHEST       33 

old  Timothy.  For,  in  the  first  place,  she 
regretted  to  hear  that  "  he  couldn't  be  sure,  but 
he  thought  it  noways  likely  there  would  be 
a  sword,  or  any  such  description  of  an  ould 
skiverin'  conthrivance,  put  up  along  with  the 
good  plate ;  at  all  events,  he  never  remimbered 
any  talk  of  e'er  a  one — not  to  his  knowledge." 
And  still  more  mortifying  than  this,  she  quickly 
perceived  that  the  old  butler  had  no  liking 
for  her  cousin.  What  Timothy  said  on  the 
subject  was  exactly  as  follows  : — "  Goin'  out 
wid  Master  Pierce,  missy  jewel?  Och  well, 
to  be  sure,  he's  a  fine  young  gentleman,  con- 
sidherin'.  If  the  night's  black  enough,  the 
haste's  white  enough,  as  Andy  Goligher  said, 
and  he  misdhrivin'  home  the  wrong  Kerry 
bullock."  An  aphorism  the  application  of 
which  may  seem  rather  obscure  to  the  undis- 
ceming,  but  which  Eileen  quite  clearly  under- 
stood as  an  intimation  that  of  Master  Pierce 
Timothy  thought  poorly,  and  she  was  sorry 
for  this,  as  she  would  have  liked  her  old  and 
her  new  acquaintance  to  be  friends. 

The  grounds  of  Timothy's  prejudice,  how- 
ever, she  did  not  guess.  The  fact  was  that  he 
had  a  few  days  before  scowlingly  from  his 
pantry    window    espied    Master    Pierce    "dis- 


34      A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

coorsin'  as  plisant  as  anythin'"  with  young 
Larry  M'Farlane,  "  that  was  sister's  son  to  ould 
Father  Doran,  and  bad  luck  to  himr  Now, 
maybe  as  many  as  a  dozen  years  ago,  Timothy 
and  Father  had  differed  in  a  discussion  about 
the  proper  season  for  sowing  asparagus,  and 
one  of  Father's  arguments  had  been :  "  That 
it  was  no  great  thanks  to  Timothy  if  he  had 
sted  a  goodish  while  wid  the  Family,  and  he, 
you  might  say,  tied  to  thim  be  the  leg  like  a 
strayin'  jackass."  Father's  allusion  was  to  the 
effects  of  an  accident,  which,  met  with  by 
Timothy  on  the  cellar-stairs  at  Drumlough 
Castle  in  his  youth,  had  left  him  a  hobbler  for 
life ;  and  since  the  controversy  Father  and  he 
"weren't  spakin'."  Therefore,  now,  if  Master 
Fierce  chose  "to  be  great  wid  a  one  of  that 
pack,  and  to  go  sthreelin'  up  the  hill  wid  him 
after  the  rabbits,"  it  was  only  natural  that  old 
Timothy  should  entertain  no  high  opinion  of 
so  indiscriminating  a  person. 

But  his  veiled  disparagement  did  not  check 
the  progress  of  a  real  friendship  between  the 
cousins,  and  when  the  end  of  Fierce's  holidays 
came,  Eileen  thought  they  had  not  been  nearly 
many  enough.  On  the  regretful  evening  before 
he  went,  they  paid   a  farewell  visit  to  the  big 


THE    KEYS    OF   THE    CHEST       35 

boulder,  and,  standing  by  it,  Eileen  said  for- 
lornly :  "  Next  time  I  '11  only  be  myself." 

"  Perhaps  I  may  be  here  again  next  summer," 
Pierce  said  encouragingly.  He  had  already 
learned  by  experience  that  even  twelve  months 
are  not  interminable. 

"  I  wish  it  would  be  next  year  always,"  said 
Eileen.  "  For  that 's  the  time  when  people 
come  back.  The  Widow  Shanahan's  son's 
coming  home  from  the  States  next  year,  please 
goodness  ;  but  she  says  she  '11  not  be  in  this 
world  then,  so  he  might  as  well  stop  where 
he's  gettin'  the  fine  wages.  Norah  says  that 
she  means  that  she  '11  be  dead.  I  wonder  who 
told  her,  or  how  she  knows.  You  don't  know 
how  soon  you  are  going  to  die.  Pierce,  do  you  ?  " 

"  Not  I,  nor  anybody  else,"  said  Pierce. 

"  I  wanted  to  give  her  her  little  silver  jug," 
said  Eileen ;  "  she 's  to  have  the  little  fat  one 
that's  gilt  inside  and  has  two  spouts,  because 
it 's  the  nicest,  and  she 's  to  be  pitied,  the  dear 
knows,  Norah  says,  with  one  thing  and  the 
other.  But  if  she  goes  and  dies  first,  I  never 
can.  Do  you  think  she'd  wait  a  while,  if  I 
told  her  about  it  as  a  secret  ? " 

"  She  mightn't  be  able,"  said  Pierce. 

"  Ah,  and  then  it  would  only  tantinglise  her," 


36      A    CREEL    OF   IRISH    STORIES 

said  Eileen,  "  so  I  'd  better  not  But  I  'm 
sorry." 

"  Don't  forget  that  you  must  send  me  word, 
if  they  lose  the  key,  and  you  want  another," 
Pierce  said  to  change  the  subject. 

"I'll  remember,"  said  Eileen.  "But  I'll 
have  to  keep  on  living  for  ever  so  much  longer 
before  they  '11  let  me  want  it.  You  see,  I  '11  not 
be  twenty-one  even  next  year,  I  should  think." 

"  I  should  think  not  indeed,  Miss  Eileen,"  said 
Pierce;  "you're  no  age  worth  speaking  of  at  all." 

They  were  now  descending  the  hill,  and  for 
some  way  Eileen  mused  vainly  about  possible 
remedies  for  this  deplorable  state  of  affairs. 
"  I  wish,"  she  said  at  length,  "  that  a  great 
many  days  would  happen  all  together  sometimes 
— in  bunches  like  the  black  and  white  currants, 
instead  of  one  by  one  and  one  by  one :  ever  so 
long  they  last,  when  there's  nobody  here  but 
me.  One  might  get  old  pretty  quick  then. 
Wouldn't  you  like  it  better.  Pierce?" 

"Well,  no,"  said  Pierce.  "If  the  days  were 
used  up  that  way,  there  'd  be  so  little  time  for 
doing  anything.  Mostly  they  're  short  enough  ; 
and  there 's  no  hurry  about  getting  old,  as  you 
call  it — an  old  woman  of  twenty — you're  a 
queer  young  person,  Eileen." 


THE    KEYS    OF   THE    CHEST      37 

"  I  was  only  thinking,"  said  Eileen,  "  that 
perhaps  I  mightn't  be  able  to  wait  a  great 
while,  any  more  than  the  Widow  Shanahan. 
And  it  would  be  a  pity  if  I  wasn't  in  this  world 
when  the  chest  is  opened  " ;  and  although  Pierce 
replied :  "  Oh,  nonsense  ;  where  else  should 
you  be?"  she  continued  to  contemplate  this 
contingency  in  sad  silence  as  they  trotted  down 
fter  their  perch-long  shadows  over  the  sunny 
'turf  with  its  jewelled  embroideries  of  golden 
trefoil  and  pearly  eyebright,  and  dim  ame- 
thystine thyme.  But  when  they  had  just  come 
to  the  gap  in  the  dyke,  where  you  step  across 
two  flat  stones  into  the  highest  field,  a  some- 
what consolatory  thought  struck  her.  It  was : 
"  Perhaps,  then,  they  'd  give  all  those  things  to 
you.  Pierce,  and  I  Ve  told  you  what  everybody 's 
to  have,  so  mind  you  don't  forget." 

She  was  so  engrossed  by  the  idea  that  she 
nearly  tripped  over  the  unheeded  stones,  and  her 
heir  and  executor,  preventing  her  tumble,  said  : 
"  Oh,  it  will  be  all  right,  never  fear ;  but  mean- 
while, little  Bright-Eyes,  you  'd  better  not  break 
your  neck.  We  '11  both  of  us  have  grand  times 
when  I  come  with  the  key." 


38      A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

Eileen  had  many  of  her  long  years,  almost 
nine,  in  fact,  during  which  she  might  have 
forgotten  Pierce  and  his  promises,  but  she 
never  did.  Only  once  in  all  that  time  did 
anything  happen  to  remind  her  of  them,  and 
that  was  on  the  Christmas  after  his  visit,  when 
Tom  Roe,  the  postman,  brought  the  first  letter 
that  had  ever  been  addressed  to  Miss  Eileen 
Fitzmaurice.  Being  opened  hastily,  it  was 
found  to  contain  a  little  white  cardboard  box, 
within  which  lay  among  rosy  cloudlets  of 
marvellous  pink  cotton-wool  a  tiny  silver  key, 
sent  to  Eileen  by  her  cousin  Pierce — her  affec- 
tionate cousin,  Pierce's  mother,  who  put  up  the 
packet  for  him,  had  written  him  down  without 
consulting  him,  as  a  matter  of  form.  The 
gift  filled  Eileen  with  gratitude  and  delight. 
Yet,  in  the  course  of  the  morning,  her  Aunt 
Geraldine  came  upon  her  when  she  sat  in  the 
book-room  window,  eyeing  her  new  possession 
with  a  somewhat  doubtful  countenance.  "  I  *m 
almost  afraid,"  she  said  half- aloud,  "that  it 
isn't  quite  long  enough.  And  I  never  did  see 
^  key  with  a  pin  in  it  before." 

"Long  enough  for  what?"  said  her  Aunt 
Geraldine.  "It  seems  to  me  to  be  a  very 
pretty   little   brooch,   and    it   was    exceedingly 


THE    KEYS    OF   THE    CHEST       39 

good-natured  of  your  cousin  to  think  of 
sending  you  one." 

"Oh  yes,  indeed,  and  it  is  very  pretty,  as 
pretty  as  can  be,"  Eileen  protested.  She  flushed 
distressfully  at  the  implication  of  ingratitude 
partly,  and  partly  at  this  new  view  of  the 
trinket,  which  would  involve  the  vanishing  of 
its  peculiar  charm.  "  I  was  only  thinking," 
she  said,  "  that  I  have  poked  my  finger  farther 
down  the  hole  than  this  would  reach ;  but,  of 
course,  if  it 's  a  brooch  " — Aunt  Geraldine  had 
not  stayed  to  hear  her  explanation  ;  and  Eileen 
presently  put  away  the  little  box  in  her  drawer, 
feeling  that  something  had  blunted  the  fine 
edge  of  her  pleasure. 

Those  nine  long  years  passed  by  unevent- 
fully. It  seemed,  indeed,  as  if  fewer  things 
and  fewer  happened  at  Glendoula.  In  the 
Big  House  life  went  on  somewhat  in  the 
manner  of  a  machine  gradually  slowing  down. 
Lady  Fitzmaurice  grew  from  season  to  season 
a  little  more  invalided  and  melancholy,  her 
sister-in-law  more  abstracted  and  apathetic, 
old  Timothy  stiffer  and  lamer  in  his  gait. 
Even  the  ancient  grey  parrot  on  his  pole  in 
the  parlour  sank  deeplier  into  his  dotage,  and 
only  grimaced  silently  at  Eileen  when  she  tried 


4©      A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

to  start  a  conversation  with  him.  Eileen  her- 
self was  an  exception,  though  perhaps  poten- 
tially rather  than  actually,  the  fresh  spirit  of 
youth  making  less  resistance  than  is  commonly 
imagined  for  it  against  the  coercion  of  dreary 
external  circumstances.  Still  her  disposition 
was  naturally  blithe  and  hopeful,  and  she 
would  have  been  ready  enough  with  her:  O 
brave  new  world !  if  any  fair  wind  had  borne 
the  good  ship  into  her  ken.  But  instead  of 
that  she  was  destined  to  see  a  woeful  wreck 
come  drifting  by. 

♦  ♦♦♦*« 

It  was  gradually,  by  an  aggregation  of 
rumours,  faint  and  vague  at  first,  that  warn- 
ings of  the  black  time  impending  stole  into 
Glendoula  valley,  much  as  the  wan  mists  creep 
thither  from  seaward,  a  mere  smoke-wreath 
falling  away  down  the  purple-rifted  shoulders 
of  Slieverossan,  with  the  murk  of  a  sky-enfolding 
cloud  gathered  up  opaquely  behind  them. 
Felix  O'Riordan,  returning  from  Clonmorragh 
fair  one  July  day,  first  brought  authentic  news 
of  how  "the  quare  ugly  blackness  on  the 
pitaties,  the  same  that  done  destruction  last 
year  on  the  crops  away  down  in  different  parts 
of  the  counthry,  was  desthroyin'   all   before  it 


THE    KEYS    OF   THE    CHEST      41 

now  no  farther  off  than  Kilfintragh,  just  at  the 
back  of  the  hills."  And  through  the  rainy 
harvest  weather  ensuing,  reports  of  the  like 
became  as  frequent  as  the  unkindly  and  chilly 
showers  that  drip-dripped  unseasonably  over 
the  little  fields.  Then  fell  a  heavy  thunderous 
night,  with  flickerings  of  sheet-lightning  fitfully 
casting  an  evil  eye  through  the  dark,  and  on 
the  morrow,  when  its  pall  lifted,  there  was 
grief  and  fear  among  the  neighbours  at  Glen- 
doula,  for  the  sober  green  ridges  looked  as  if 
a  scorching  breath  had  passed  over  them,  and 
from  their  drooping  haulms  and  leaves  came 
wafted  the  ill-auguring  odour. 

After  that  the  trouble  throve  and  waxed 
like  the  most  unmolested  weed.  A  man  per- 
haps seldom  tastes  despair  much  cruder  and 
sheerer  than  when  at  the  impatiently  desired 
potato-digging  he  turns  up  spadeful  after  spade- 
ful, spadeful  after  spadeful,  nothing  but  dangling 
lumps  of  malodorous  slime,  nothing  but  that 
whatever,  on  to  the  very  end  of  the  drill,  where 
the  wife  stands  watching  him  and  saying :  "  Ah, 
the  Lord  be  good  to  us — have  we  ne'er  a  sound 
one  in  it  at  all?"  with  the  childer  beside  her 
looking  on,  piteously  concerned  or  piteously 
indifferent.       Before    Slieverossan    had    drawn 


42       A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

down  his  winter  snow-hood,  the  dearth  wrought 
by  the  ruined  harvest  was  finding  its  victims 
far  and  wide.  Serious  distress  existed  in  the 
big  houses,  where  people  were  at  their  wit's 
end  to  devise  some  agreeable  substitute  for  that 
empty  dish  on  the  dinner  table.  Savoury  rice, 
they  tried,  and  stewed  toast,  and  Yorkshire 
pudding,  and  many  other  such  things,  but 
none  of  them  satisfactorily  filled  the  place  of 
the  missing  potato.  There  still  remained  a 
gap  all-thing  unbecoming  at  their  feast.  It  was 
a  dreadful  loss.  But  in  the  small  houses  people 
were  spared  all  worry  of  that  sort  at  least, 
because  when  they  had  no  pitaties,  they  had 
nothing  else  to  eat,  bad  or  good,  which  made 
their  bill  of  fare  a  perfectly  simple  matter,  thus 
illustrating,  no  doubt,  the  providential  law  of 
compensation. 

Eileen's  mind,  however,  was  not  philosophic 
enough  to  show  her  this  aspect  of  the  case, 
and  what  she  did  actually  see  and  hear  smote 
her  with  sorrow  and  dismay.  It  seemed  as 
if  the  way  of  her  world,  hitherto  a  tranquil, 
sometimes  rather  tedious,  one,  had  changed 
into  the  path  of  a  surging  flood,  whence  cries 
of  despair  and  beseeching  hands  appealed  to 
her  vainly  where  she  stood,  secure  herself  and 


THE    KEYS    OF    THE    CHEST       43 

helpless  and  remorseful.  So  little  for  anybody 
could  she  do,  who  would  fain  have  rescued 
them  all.  Even  if  she  had  commanded  the 
whole  resources  of  the  household,  they  would 
have  been  miserably  inadequate  ;  but  as  it  was. 
Aunt  Geraldine  said  drearily  that  she  sup- 
posed it  was  no  use  giving  to  vagrants,  and 
old  Timothy,  whose  inborn  tendency  towards 
"  naygurliness,"  had  developed  into  a  vice-like 
clamp,  which  acted  automatically  at  the  pressure 
of  a  petition,  kept  one  watchful  eye  perpetually 
upon  the  hall-door,  and  another  on  the  little 
store-room  across  the  passage.  Only  by  rare 
conjunctions  of  good  luck  with  agility  could 
Eileen  elude  his  vigilance  so  far  as  to  fetch 
and  carry  between  them  unbeknownst  More 
often  than  not,  she  arrived  too  late  to  do  any- 
thing ;  and  at  best,  her  stealthiest  operations 
among  the  bread  -  crocks  and  biscuits  were 
pretty  sure  to  bring  the  old  man  shuffling 
thither  in  defence  of  the  menaced  commissariat. 

"  Arrah  now.  Miss  Eily,  what  work  have  you 
there,  cuttin'  up  the  fresh  loaf?  and  the  laws 
bless  us  all,  but  that's  the  hunch!  If  there 
was  a  slab  of  a  brick  wantin'  for  repeerin'  the 
house-wall,  you  could  make  a  shift  wid  that." 

"  There 's  a  very  decent  poor  man  at  the  door," 


44      A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

Eileen  might  say,  "  who  looks  as  if  he  had  been 
starving  for  a  month  of  Sundays ;  and  he  has 
a  scrap  of  a  baby  with  him ;  its  mother  died 
yesterday  at  Kilfintragh.  I  must  get  it  a 
piece  of  soft  bread,  and  a  drink  of  milk,  if 
there  's  any  left." 

"And  what  for  need  you  be  destroyin*  a 
whole  loaf  for  a  crathur  o'  that  size?  Sure, 
I  seen  it  comin'  past  me  window,  sittin'  cocked 
up  like  a  kitten  bewitched.  I  've  some  stale 
bits  in  the  other  crock  'ud  do  it  grand." 

"  Oh,  those  are  nothing  but  little  crumbs,  only 
fit  for  the  chickens.** 

"Musha,  long  life  to  it!  And  is  it  settin' 
itself  up  to  want  betther  feedin'  than  the 
chuckens?  Well,  now,  I  should  suppose  that 
what's  good  enough  for  them's  plenty  good 
enough  for  it,  when  the  most  differ  between 
them  is  that  sorra  the  use  it's  ever  apt  to  be, 
starved  or  no,  except  makin*  throuble  for 
itself  and  other  people." 

"Well,  if  some  babies  had  been  fed  like 
chickens,  perhaps  they  wouldn't  have  grown 
up  so  fond  of  gabbling  like  old  geese,"  Eileen 
might  rejoin,  inaudibly,  so  that  the  repartee 
should  relieve  her  own  at  no  cost  to  Timothy's 
feelings,  as  she  escaped  with  her  booty. 


THE    KEYS    OF   THE    CHEST      45 

But  her  raids  were  not  by  any  means  invari- 
ably so  successful.  Sometimes  she  found  that 
Timothy  had  forestalled  her,  and  had  swept 
everything  into  an  inaccessible  locker;  and 
sometimes  there  was  really  nothing  left  to 
sweep.  So  then  she  had  no  resource  save  to 
ensconce  herself  in  the  remotest  backward- 
looking  room,  that  she  might  not  hear  the 
interchange  of  entreaty  and  denial,  nor  witness 
the  lingering  withdrawal  of  the  rejected  sup- 
pliants, wandering  away  disappointed  out  of 
sight,  but  not  out  of  mind  so  soon,  behind 
the  glossy-walled  belt  of  laurels. 

For  a  like  reason  she  shunned  in  those  days 
what  used  to  be  a  favourite  walk  beyond  the 
front  gates  along  the  quiet  lane,  with  its 
broad  green  banks  softly  on  one  side  mounting 
up  into  amply  spreading  grass-slopes,  now 
haunted  at  its  every  turn  by  sorrowful  spectres 
that  she  had  no  charm  to  lay.  Occasionally 
one  of  them  would  say  to  her :  "  Ah,  melady, 
the  blessin's  of  God  on  the  sweet  face  of  you, 
and  may  you  never  know  what  it  is  to  want 
the  bit,"  and  this  made  her  feel  herself  all  the 
more  to  be  a  sort  of  ravening  locust.  Her  own 
meals,  indeed,  those  times,  were  partaken  of 
grudgingly  and  of  necessity,  after  which,  carry- 


46      A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

ing  everything  she  could  lay  hands  on,  she 
hurried  off  to  the  end  of  the  elm  grove,  where 
a  herd  of  small  children  would  be  looking  out 
for  them  with  large  eyes.  But  day  by  day  she 
thought  her  supplies  seemed  to  dwindle,  and 
the  pinched  faces  to  multiply,  and  she  was  as 
powerless  against  that  as  if  it  were  the  on- 
coming of  night.  One  day  in  a  week  of  black 
frost  she  desperately  sold  her  godmother's 
cameo  bracelet  to  a  passing  higgler  for  a 
shilling,  wherewith  she  bought  out  of  a  baker's 
cart  three  portly  loaves ;  and  the  satisfaction 
which  these  caused  to  prevail  for  a  while,  a 
short  while,  almost  compelled  her  to  think  that 
she  would  dispose  in  the  same  method  of  her 
silver  key-brooch,  her  only  other  ornament,  the 
next  time  he  came  by.  But  always,  having 
looked  at  it  for  some  minutes,  she  replaced  it 
in  its  box  without  achieving  any  resolve.  The 
pencilled  line,  still  legible  on  the  lid,  seemed  to 
protest  against  the  transaction  in  the  name  of 
the  dead  summer  that  lived  with  her  brightest 
memories. 

****** 
All    this    while   the   big   boulder   stone   was 
lying    out    under    the    stars    and     mists    and 
shadow-shifting   winds   on   the  grassy   ridge  of 


THE    KEYS    OF   THE    CHEST      47 

Slieve  Ardgreine ;  and  thither  constantly 
travelled  Eileen's  thoughts,  although  her  bodily 
pilgrimages  to  it  had  grown  less  frequent 
than  heretofore,  since  dripping  tussocks  and 
long,  bedraggled  skirts  had  become  a  graver 
consideration.  She  had  never  lost  her  faith 
in  it  and  its  contents.  Nothing  whatever  had 
occurred  to  alter  her  opinion  about  it,  and  the 
silence  on  the  subject  which  various  reasons 
obliged  her  to  maintain  helped  to  ward  off 
chances  of  disillusioning  enlightenment  Eileen's 
sixteen  years  in  lonely  Glendoula  had  taught 
her  so  very  little  either  at  first  or  second  hand 
about  other  Quality's  domestic  arrangements, 
that  for  anything  she  could  tell,  it  might  not  be 
unusual  to  keep  the  family  plate  locked  up  in  a 
large  stone  chest  out-of-doors.  Therefore  no 
antecedent  improbability  cropped  up  to  struggle 
with  the  existence  of  a  long-cherished,  deep- 
rooted  dream  and  desire. 

The  one  change  that  had  here  been  wrought 
by  those  slow-footed,  empty-handed  years  was 
in  the  use  she  designed  for  her  riches.  This 
change  grew  more  radical  under  stress  of  the 
famishing  winter.  She  no  longer  could  care 
to  admire  the  beauty  of  the  bright  gleaming 
silver  things,  nor  to  sort  out  from  among  them 


48      A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

fastidiously  appropriate  gifts  for  each  —  that 
indeed  had  become  only  too  simple  a  process, 
since  everybody's  need  was  the  same.  Her 
sole  wish  now  was  to  sell  all  that  she  had 
straightway — she  would  have  waited  to  make 
no  pious  bargains  about  treasure  in  heaven — 
that  she  might  satisfy  the  poor  with  bread. 
But  the  more  intensely  her  wishes  concentrated 
themselves  upon  that  object,  the  more  keenly 
she  felt  how  far  it  was  out  of  reach. 
Four  years  and  some  months,  jealously 
reckoned,  still  were  lacking  to  her  of  the  age 
that  would  legally  entitle  her  to  enter  upon  the 
possession  of  her  property ;  and  although  she 
now  knew  from  other  sources  than  old  Timothy 
that  some  inheritance  did  then  await  her,  what 
could  such  a  distant  prospect  avail  in  the  face 
of  to-day's  direful  necessity  ?  Chafing  sorely 
against  the  law's  delay  that  set  bars  between 
the  owner  and  her  rights,  Eileen  wondered 
sometimes  whether  the  Lord  Chancellor,  whom 
she  understood  to  rule  her  destinies,  might  not 
under  the  circumstances  be  persuaded  to  trust 
her  with  her  fortune,  now  that  she  was 
sixteen  and  a  half,  just  to  keep  poor  Denis 
Madden's  half-dozen  orphans,  and  old  Widow 
Flynn   and   her  blind    daughter,    and    all    the 


THE    KEYS    OF   THE    CHEST      49 

rest  of  the  people  from  starving  completely. 
Once  she  actually  ventured  upon  a  remote  hint 
at  some  such  possibility  to  her  Aunt  Geraldine, 
but  lacking  courage  did  not  approach  the 
subject  closely  enough  to  make  herself  in- 
telligible ;  a  failure  for  which  her  conscience 
often  pricked  her  in  the  following  days. 
*♦♦♦♦♦ 

More  than  ever  on  the  morning  when  this 
incident  befel :  It  was  mocking  March  weather, 
bright  and  calm  and  pitilessly  cold,  and 
Eileen  thought  she  would  warm  herself  by 
running  up  to  her  big  stone,  which  she  had 
not  visited  since  the  autumn.  But  before 
she  reached  the  first  bend  in  the  avenue 
young  Larry  M 'Far lane  hastily  met  her, 
and  turned  her  aside  into  a  shrubbery  with 
a  moving  story  about  a  crippled  blackbird 
which  was  fluttering  there  among  the  bushes. 
"  Unless  some  ould  miscreant  of  a  cat  might 
be  slinkin'  away  under  the  low  branches 
this  minyit,  Miss  Eileen,  wid  the  crathur 
grabbed  in  her  mouth."  Larry  had  invented 
this  little  fiction  on  the  spur  of  the  moment, 
the  fact  being  that  just  round  the  turn,  a 
few  yards  from  where  he  stopped  Eileen,  a 
heap    of    rags    seemed    to  have    fallen,   as   if 


50      A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

flung  or  blown  down  across  the  road.  Its 
halt  there  had  indeed  been  so  unpremeditated 
that  only  a  remnant  of  the  crust  someone 
had  begged  hard  for  up  at  the  House  a 
minute  before  was  still  gripped  in  a  gaunt 
hand.  Coming  upon  this  obstruction,  young 
Larry,  whose  fare  nowadays  did  not  conduce 
to  athletic  feats,  found  its  removal  quite 
beyond  his  powers,  and  therefore  ran  on  to 
seek  help,  when  his  meeting  with  Miss  Eileen 
converted  his  most  urgent  duty  into  the 
task  of  hindering  her  from  "gettin'  a  quare 
fright  along  of  the  misfort'nit  poor  body." 
He  accomplished  it  only  in  part  For  he 
could  not  contrive  but  that  she  should  notice 
the  gathering  of  a  crowd  in  the  avenue,  and 
the  shrilling  of  shocked  ejaculations,  and  then 
the  bearing  away  with  slow  solemnity,  which 
apprised  her  of  how  near  the  cloaked  shadow 
had  passed. 

Eileen  gave  up  her  expedition  to  the  stone 
chest;  its  baffling  impenetrability  seemed  just 
then  a  cruel  gibe  of  Fate,  wiselier  ignored. 
Larry,  for  his  part,  temporarily  lost  sight  of 
the  errand  which  had  been  bringing  him  up 
to  the  Big  House :  a  commission  he  had 
undertaken  to  execute  for  the  postman.     Thus 


THE    KEYS    OF   THE    CHEST      51 

it  was  not  until  the  evening,  when  the  cold 
March  twilight  had  faded,  too  tardily  for 
many  people  impatient  to  huddle  away  into 
oblivious  sleep,  that  a  letter  reached  the 
thriftily-lit  drawing-room,  where  Eileen  and 
her  aunt  were  also  getting  through  the  interval 
before  bed -time  as  best  they  could,  which 
was  but  dully.  A  letter  was  something  of 
an  event  in  itself,  and  this  one,  unlike  most 
of  its  predecessors,  did  not  collapse  inanely  into 
a  listless  "  Oh,  it 's  only " — for  it  contained  a 
real  piece  of  news. 

Glendoula  was  to  have  another  visit  from 
Pierce  Wilmot.  Pierce,  who  had  grown  up 
a  civil  engineer,  was  now  in  charge  of  certain 
road-making  relief-works,  which  were  about 
to  come  creeping  down  Letterglas  valley 
and  up  through  the  Nick  of  Time  into  the 
neighbouring  glen.  The  superintendence  of 
these  would  bring  him  to  stay  for  a  while 
near  the  place,  and  he  hoped  to  renew  his 
acquaintance  with  his  kinsfolk  at  the  Big 
House.  All  the  establishment  was  more  or 
less  thrilled  by  the  intelligence.  It  seemed, 
of  course,  only  natural  that  he  should  take 
up  his  quarters  there,  and  the  prospect  pleased 
on  the  whole.      Lady   Fitzmaurice,  even,  and 


52      A    CREEL    OF   IRISH    STORIES 

her  sister-in-law  were  slightly  cheered  and 
roused ;  even  old  Timothy,  despite  his 
prejudice,  set  about  his  polishing  with  a  revived 
zest,  in  anticipation  of  a  visitor  who  might 
be  expected  to  appreciate  "the  differ 
between  spoons  that  had  a  proper  shine  kep* 
on  them,  and  ones  that  was  as  dingy  as  if 
you'd  loaned  them  for  stirrin'  the  Ould 
Fellow's  tay,"  All  the  others,  who  remembered 
Master  Pierce  as  a  fine  friendly-spoken  young 
gentleman,  thought  that  it  would  be  a  pleasant 
variety  to  set  eyes  on  him  again,  and  the 
rest  were  quite  ready  to  welcome  him  on 
that  recommendation.  Eileen  alone  looked 
forward  to  his  return  somewhat  doubtfully. 
She  knew  right  well  that  things  could  not 
be  the  same  as  they  were  in  those  very  olden 
days;  and  the  differences  might  not  be 
improvements.  Suppose  that  she  did  not 
like  the  grown-up  Pierce,  nor  he  her?  Then 
her  reminiscences,  she  thought,  would  be 
superseded  and  spoiled.  Still,  she  believed 
herself,  after  all,  to  be  glad  that  he  was 
coming. 

****** 
It    was   late   on   a  wild  bleak   evening   that 
Pierce   arrived,   after   a   long    open-air   day  of 


THE    KEYS    OF   THE    CHEST      53 

surveying  and  supervising.  An  additional 
pair  of  candles  illuminated  the  drawing-room 
in  his  honour,  and  were  burning  clearly 
enough  to  show  what  manner  of  man  he  was 
at  four  -  and  -  twenty.  He  had  not  changed 
at  all  irrecognisably,  being  still  black  and 
straight -browed,  alert  and  rather  resolute- 
looking,  as  beseemed  a  person  whose  business 
consisted  largely  in  the  clearing  away  of 
obstacles,  by  summarily  forcible  methods  if 
need  were.  He  had  done  this  figuratively 
upon  occasion  as  well  as  literally  since  his 
last  visit  to  Glendoula.  But  the  little  girl 
who  then  used  to  patter  up  and  down  that 
primitive  path  beside  him  was  now  much 
harder  to  identify,  having  shot  up  so  slender 
and  tall.  Also  in  Pierce's  honour,  Eileen 
had  put  on  her  best  gown  that  evening,  a 
fine  white  muslin,  sprinkled  with  a  pattern 
of  little  lilac  rose-bunches,  outlined  in  a 
cloud  of  black  dots.  It  was  not  more  than 
half  a  decade  lag  of  the  latest  Dublin  fashions, 
but  the  six  months*  growth  since  its  last 
wearing  had  certainly  made  its  skirt  a  rather 
skimpy  length,  as  she  noted  with  chagrin 
when  putting  it  on.  Some  consolation  was 
found     in     fastening    her     deep     embroidered 


54      A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

collar  with  the  silver  key.  She  had  plaited 
her  brown  hair,  darker  now,  yet  keeping  its 
richness  of  latent  gold,  in  an  unusually 
elaborate  Grecian-plait  to  coil  in  a  careful 
spiral  knot  at  the  back  of  her  head.  But 
first  it  framed  her  face  in  satin-sleek  bands, 
smoothed  down  low  on  the  delicate  curve 
of  the  cheek,  and  then  gathered  up,  leaving 
on  either  side  a  loop  discovering  a  shell-like 
ear.  As  pink  as  a  geranium-blossom  one  of 
them  was  that  evening,  the  nipping  cold  and 
her  thin  dress  had  tempted  her  to  sit  so  near 
the  fire ;  and  her  eyes  were  as  softly  bright 
as  ever,  with  such  light  as  a  sunbeam, 
questing  beneath  leaf-lattices,  may  waken  in 
a  moss-brimmed  nook  of  clearest  well-water. 

Pierce  noticed  all  these  things,  and  none  of 
them,  while  he  was  greeting  his  Aunt  Geraldine ; 
and  he  fell  in  love  so  simultaneously  that  it 
would  have  been  impossible  to  say  whether 
his  observations  came  before  or  after.  His 
habit  was  to  be  prompt  and  decided,  and 
with  promptitude  and  decision  did  he  grasp 
this  new  experience — of  which,  nevertheless, 
an  access  of  very  unwonted  diffidence  and 
irresolution  seemed  part  and  parcel.  These 
set  in  immediately,  as  if  he  had  passed  a  vote 


THE    KEYS    OF   THE    CHEST      55 

of  want  of  confidence  against  himself  upon 
the  spot,  and  its  effect  was  retrospective, 
throwing  a  slur  alike  upon  his  present  and 
his  past.  He  wondered  whether  his  cousin 
had  not  thought  him  a  peculiarly  odious 
schoolboy.  His  old  pet  name  for  her  suddenly 
occurred  to  him  as  persistently  appropriate, 
but  the  mere  remembrance  of  it  made  him 
feel  so  over  -  presumptuous  that  he  almost 
wished  her  to  have  forgotten  it  In  like 
manner  he  recollected,  and  could  not  dare  to 
remind  her  of,  their  climb  up  Slieve  Ardgreine, 
or  their  adventure  with  the  strayed  goats, 
and  other  episodes.  He  had  retained  only 
just  enough  common-sense  to  understand  that 
Eileen's  silence  all  the  evening  upon  this,  and 
indeed  every  other  topic,  was  not  intended 
for  a  rebuff;  and  the  flow  of  his  conversation 
with  his  Aunt  Geraldine  was  not  a  little 
impeded  by  a  perpetual  apprehension,  alto- 
gether superfluous,  of  her  niece  as  a  critic. 

Of  course,  he  was  not  very  long  in  recover- 
ing his  presence  of  mind.  In  a  day  or  two 
he  began  to  dispense  with  such  hampering 
precautions,  but  the  sentiment  that  had  sug- 
gested them  continued  in  full  force,  and  did 
not   cease   to   influence    his   behaviour.       Less. 


56      A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

perhaps,  in  his  dealings  with  Eileen  than  with 
the  world  at  large,  it  made  him  transpose 
himself,  so  to  speak,  into  a  softer  key.  He 
unlearned  in  a  single  week  some  tricks  of 
peremptoriness  and  self-assertion,  which  the 
vicissitudes  of  one  early  set  in  authority  had 
been  teaching  him  through  several  past  years. 
For  it  was  with  him  as  if  he  had  suddenly 
discovered  the  existence  of  something  precious 
and  perishable,  that  a  touch  might  shatter  or 
a.  breath  destroy,  and  thereupon  he  grew 
wonderfully  sensitive  to  the  wide  -  spreading 
intricacies  of  cause  and  effect  How  could 
he  tell  but  that  a  rough  word  spoken  any- 
where might  set  a-stirring  peril-fraught  vibra- 
tions to  reach  and  threaten  the  head  that  he 
loved?  For  her  sake,  he  would  have  liked 
everything  to  be  on  velvet,  and  he  was  always 
instinctively  aiming  at  that  end.  The  most 
unskilled  and  incapable  of  the  labourers  whose 
efforts  he  superintended  found  their  miscel- 
laneous inefficiency  treated  with  singular 
forbearance,  even  if  it  attained  an  egregious- 
ness  characterised  by  their  comrades  as  "a 
quare  botch  intirely,"  and  driving  their 
foreman  to  demand  of  various  powers,  celestial 
and     otherwise :     What    to    glory     the    great 


THE    KEYS    OF   THE    CHEST       57 

gaby  was  at?  During  leisure  moments  their 
lank  and  hollow-eyed  gang  were  prone  to 
pass  the  remark  that  "  the  captain "  was  "  a 
rael  gintleman " ;  while  up  at  the  Big  House 
all  the  inmates  accorded  him  all  sorts  of 
golden  opinions. 

Eileen  herself  meanwhile  was  not  in  the 
least  aware  of  what  had  befallen  him,  but 
she  had  left  off  dreading  any  detriment  to 
her  cherished  memories,  and  his  visit  had 
undoubtedly  brought  an  influx  of  pleasure  and 
interest  to  cheer  her  present  day.  She  was 
so  unaccustomed  to  being  made  much  of  by 
relations  that  this  kinsman's  good  nature  im- 
pressed her  as  quite  extraordinary,  and  so 
little  used  to  making  much  of  herself  that 
she  never  thought  of  attributing  it  to  anything 
except  a  special  quality  in  Pierce,  rather  more 
likely,  no  doubt,  to  be  exercised  in  another 
person's  behalf  than  in  her  own.  It  repeatedly 
surprised  her  to  see  that  he  remembered  and 
acted  upon  her  opinions  and  wishes,  as  if 
they  were  really  important  —  a  new  view  of 
them  which  she  would  have  been  slow  to 
adopt.  One  morning  he  rode  off  all  the  long 
way  to  Denismore  and  back  to  get  her 
Alfred     Tennyson's     latest    volume,    and    her 


58      A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

delight  in  it  was  alloyed  only  by  the 
intrusive  consideration  of  how  much  coarse 
meal  the  price  of  it  would  have  purchased. 
For  her  mind  was  still  engrossingly  pre- 
occupied with  the  neighbours'  trouble. 

****** 

The  cloud  of  it  had  lifted  a  little  since 
Pierce's  coming.  Possible  wages  loosened  the 
famine-grip  on  such  households  as  could  send 
forth  a  man  to  ply  pick  and  shovel,  instead 
of  hopelessly  lying  abed  "  agin  the  hunger " ; 
and  then  a  spell  of  more  genial  weather  inter- 
posing released  everybody  from  the  clutches 
of  that  other  icy-fingered  foe,  whose  co- 
operation is  so  deadly.  "For  sure,"  as  old 
Christy  Shanahan  had  been  known  to  remark 
in  this  connection,  "to  be  starvin'  inside  and 
outside  at  the  one  time  is  more  than  any 
raisonable  man  can  stand  at  all,  unless  be 
good  luck  he  was  a  graven  image."  This 
dim  lightening  of  the  prospect,  however, 
rousing  a  stir  of  hope  where  numb  despair 
had  begun  to  prevail,  made  the  need  of  plans 
for  a  timely  rescue  seem  all  the  more  urgent. 
One  evening  at  dinner,  Eileen  heard  Pierce 
say  that  if  the  people  could  get  food  enough 
to  ward  off  the  fever  just  until  the  potatoes — 


THE    KEYS    OF   THE    CHEST       59 

supposing  there  should  be  any — were  dug,  they 
might  do  well  enough  ;  otherwise,  it  was  a  bad 
lookout.  And  he  added  that  it  was  hard  to  see 
how  it  could  be  managed,  as  the  road-making 
grant  had  nearly  run  short,  and  where  else 
should  the  money  come  from  ?  At  that  Eileen 
had  almost  spoken  her  haunting  thought  aloud, 
and  it  was :  "  the  great  chest  full  of  silver." 
And  though  the  unpropitious  moment  enjoined 
silence,  therefrom  dated  the  designing  of  an 
enterprise  so  venturesome  that  the  possibility 
of  carrying  it  out  was  a  point  upon  which 
she  hopefully  and  fearfully  changed  her  mind 
a  dozen  times  daily  for  as  many  days. 

At  last  there  came  a  brilliant,  capriciously- 
lighted  morning,  with  its  shine  and  shadow 
under  the  control  of  a  shifting  snow-drift, 
which  sailed  at  the  wind's  will.  It  was  a 
holiday,  and  Pierce  succeeded  in  setting  out 
almost  as  soon  as  he  wished  on  the  early 
walk  he  had  planned  with  his  cousin.  What 
slight  delay  did  intervene  was  caused  by  the 
arrival,  just  as  they  were  starting,  of  the 
Widow  Barry  with  a  couple  of  eggs  to  sell 
on  commission  for  her  next  door  neighbour — 
the  Widow  Shanahan,  who  "  could  get  that  far 
be  no  manner  of  manes  herself,  the  crathur." 


6o      A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

"  And  they  're  the  last  ones  you  'II  be  takin' 
off  her,  Miss  Eileen,  she  bid  me  tell  you,"  said 
Widow  Barry.  "For  she's  after  killin'  her 
ould  hin  this  mornin',  because  it's  torminted 
she  was  to  be  seein'  it  mopin'  around  starvin' 
the  same  as  a  raisonable  body,  sorra  a  bit  had 
she  to  be  throwin'  it  this  great  while  back 
■whativer.  'Deed  now,  you  might  as  well  be 
walkin'  along  the  shore  of  the  say  these  times 
as  along  be  the  dures  down  the  street,  for  e'er 
a  scrap  of  pitaty-parin'  or  anythin'  else  you  'd 
find  lyin'  about.  The  crathur  had  to  be  con- 
tintin'  itself  wid  whativer  it  could  pick  out  of 
the  ground,  and  bedad  I  won'er  it  had  the 
heart  to  think  of  layin'  e'er  an  odd  egg  at  all. 
So  she  took  and  wrung  its  neck  this  mornin', 
and  she  said  the  sup  of  broth  'ud  keep  the 
life  in  herself  and  poor  Katty  for  a  day  or  so 
anyway.  But  och,  Miss  Eileen  dear,  it'll  be 
the  weeny  sup  entirely.  For  *twas  meself 
caught  the  crathur  for  her,  and  I  declare  to 
goodness  it  wasn't  the  weight  in  me  hand  of  a 
little  wisp  of  hay.  Sez  I  to  her,  the  feathers 
on  it  'ud  be  heavier  be  thimselves.  But  sure 
she  could  do  no  betther ;  and  if  it  boiled  into 
the  name  of  broth  even,  it'd  give  them  the 
notion  they  was  aitin'  somethin'."     In  prospect 


THE    KEYS    OF   THE    CHEST      6i 

of  this  repast,  the  sixpence  that  Pierce  sent 
seemed  to  him  hardly  more  than  an  emphasising 
of  a  "strong  distemper  and  a  weak  relief"; 
but  the  Widow  Barry,  who  went  her  way  filled 
with  a  gratitude  to  God  and  man,  may  have 
understood  the  situation  better. 

And  then  the  two  young  people  set  out  on 
their  rambles.  They  took  their  old  favourite 
route  up  Slieve  Ardgreine,  for  the  first  time 
since  Pierce's  visit,  on  Eileen's  part,  as  the 
milder  weather  had  been  "soft"  too,  turning 
the  mossy  nap  of  the  turf  into  a  treacherous 
sponge,  that  squelched  coldly  over-shoes  at 
the  lightest  footfall.  To-day,  however,  it 
might  be  traversed  dry-shod,  given  a  discreet 
avoidance  of  extra  vivid  patches  in  the  golden 
green ;  and  a  busy  thirsty  breeze  had  left 
scarcely  a  dewdrop  in  the  glazed  cups  of  the 
celandines  and  the  pink-rimmed  saucers  of  half- 
blown  daisy-buds.  Up  this  daintily  carpeted 
path  Eileen  picked  her  steps  rather  silently. 
Her  companion  thought  that  she  had  been 
saddened  by  the  incident  of  the  ill-faring  fowl, 
but  that  was  not  the  reason.  What  pre- 
occupied her  was  the  great  venture  which  she 
appeared  to  be  approaching  more  or  less  in 
spite    of   herself      The  very   direction    which 


62      A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

their  walk  was  taking,  at  no  choice  of  her  own, 
was  like  a  hand  beckoning  imperiously.  On  the 
way  up  she  hovered  towards  the  verge  of  it, 
and  recoiled  from  it,  and  came  stealing  back 
to  it  again,  oftener  than  the  flitting  clouds 
furled  and  unfurled  their  shadow-mats  at  her 
feet ;  and  the  big  boulder,  the  stone  plate-chest, 
hove  in  sight  while  she  was  still  wavering. 
Failure  would  be  so  very  terrible  to  her.  She 
knew  that  if  Pierce  were  shocked  or  indignant, 
or  even  amused,  she  would  be  miserable  indeed  ; 
and  she  could  not  by  any  means  convince 
herself  that  he  would  not  be  all  these  things. 
Yet,  when  they  were  standing  beside  the  tall, 
blackish  shape  together,  just  as  in  old  times — 
only  it  used  to  be  the  taller  then — she  felt 
desperately  that,  chance  what  might,  she  must 
not  go  away  without  speaking  the  sentence 
she  had  been  mentally  rehearsing  all  the  week. 
It  rang  in  her  ears  like  a  clamorous  bell,  and 
made  her  deaf  to  any  other  speech,  so  evidently 
that  Pierce  stopped  in  the  middle  of  what  he 
was  beginning  to  remark,  as  if  she  had  inter- 
rupted him.  Just  at  that  moment  the  sun 
swam  out  clear  of  a  high-tossed  drift,  and  sent 
a  golden  wave  sweeping  widely  up  and  down 
the  hill-slopes.     It  broke  against  the  big  stone, 


THE    KEYS    OF   THE    CHEST      63 

shining  into  Eileen's  face  with  all  the  dazzle- 
ment  of  an  April  forenoon,  and  she  accepted 
the  omen  as  if  it  had  been  the  cordial  clasp  of 
some  encouraging  hand.  Before  the  radiant 
rim  had  slidden  on  many  paces  farther,  she 
took  heart  of  grace,  and  the  irrevocable  word 
was  spoken. 

"  There  was  one  thing  I  wanted  to  ask  you 
about,  Pierce,"  she  said.  She  had  moved 
round  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  chest,  and 
was  looking  at  him  across  the  lid,  with  eyes 
very  bright  and  wistful  beneath  her  broad- 
brimmed  straw  hat,  which  had  brown  ribbons 
tied  in  a  bow  under  her  chin,  "  I  shouldn't 
wonder  if  you  thought  it  very  dreadful  of  me," 
she  continued  ;  "  but  I  really  don't  think  it  is 
myself.  After  all,  I  only  want  to  use  my  own 
things,  and  that  can  be  no  great  harm ;  and  if 
these  don't  belong  to  me  now,  they  don't  belong 
to  anybody,  which  is  absurd.  At  any  rate,  it 
couldn't  possibly  make  any  difference  worth 
speaking  of  to  those  people  up  at  the  office 
in  Dublin,  and  it  would  make  all  the  difference 
in  the  world  to  the  poor  people  here;  so  'the 
right  of  it  over-leps  the  wrong  of  it,'  as  old 
Murtagh     Reilly     used     to     say."       She    was 


64      A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

gradually  arguing  herself  into  courage ;  still 
a  mere  shadow  falling  anywhere  would  have 
routed  it. 

"  I  hope  it  is  something  truly  appalling,  or 
else  I  '11  be  horribly  disappointed  now,"  Pierce 
replied,  a  little  puzzled  by  this  prologue,  but 
rather  pleasantly  so,  because  he  liked  her  ta 
consult  him.  "You've  raised  my  expectations 
cruelly.  .  .  .  But  if  you  wish,  I  '11  undertake  not 
to  think  it  very  dreadful,  nor  dreadful  in  the 
least  degree,"  he  added,  as  after  a  short  pause 
she  seemed  still  to  be  hesitating.  He  would 
have  said  that  he  had  never  made  a  safer 
promise. 

"  Well,  then,"  said  Eileen  ;  "  do  you  remember 
how  you  said  one  time  that  you  could  easily 
get  a  key  for  this  old  chest  of  ours  ?  Here 's 
the  key-hole,  you  see,  all  right,  I  've  always 
kept  it  clear  of  moss.  And,  I  wonder,  would 
you  mind — if  it  didn't  give  you  a  great  deal 
of  trouble — getting  one  for  me  now  ?  Without 
telling  anybody  else,  I  mean,  for  of  course 
they  wouldn't  let  me.  I  know  I  can  have  no 
legal  right  to  take  anything  out  of  it  until 
1  come  of  age ;  but  that 's  only  the  law^  and 
really  when  people  are  starving,  one  can't  be 
expected  to  wait  for  years  and  years  just  on 


THE    KEYS    OF   THE    CHEST       6s 

account  of  such  nonsense.  At  the  best  of 
times  it  seems  a  great  pity  to  keep  it  lying 
here  useless  for  so  long,  but  now  it 's  like 
locking  up  other  people's  lives.  If  I  can't  get 
at  it  in  time  to  do  anything  for  them,  I  might 
as  well  never  have  it  at  all — there'll  not  be 
a  soul  left  in  Glendoula.  You've  no  idea  how 
hateful  it  makes  one  feel.  Sometimes  it  seems 
to  me  that  I  'm  nearly  as  bad  as  the  wretches 
who  go  on  carting  off  their  wheat  and  oats 
to  sell  in  England.  Only  it  isn't  my  fault 
in  reality,  for  until  you  came  I  never  had  a 
chance  of  speaking  to  any  possible  person 
about  it.  And  then,  Pierce,  I  was  thinking 
that  when  we  have  got  this  opened,  you'd 
maybe  help  me  to  manage  about  selling  the 
silver.  It  must  be  worth  a  great  deal  of 
money :  enough,  at  anyrate,  to  last  while  they 
are  waiting  for  the  potatoes ;  for  we  really  had 
very  fine  plate,  I  believe,  though  it  mayn't  be 
quite  so  splendid  as  old  Timothy  used  to 
declare — he  is  a  little  given  to  romancing. 
And,  of  course,  these  times  I  don't  expect  to 
find  the  yards  of  pearl  and  ruby  ropes  that 
were  in  the  Glittering  Hoard!  You  do  re- 
member that  I  told  you,  and  that  you  promised 
about   the   key,   don't   you,    Pierce?"   she   said 


66      A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

anxiously,  perplexed  by  his  expression,  for  he 
was  looking  hard  at  her  with  a  sort  of  be- 
wildered blank  dismay,  almost  as  if  something 
had  frightened  him — an  effect  which  she  had 
not  included  among  her  many  apprehensions. 

He  was  taken  wholly  unprepared,  because 
during  her  irresolution  Eileen  naturally  had 
shunned  the  perilous  subject,  and  he  had 
himself  for  the  time  being  entirely  forgotten 
the  existence  of  that  old  childish  myth.  But 
now  he  did  indeed  remember  it,  as  clearly  as 
if  it  had  happened  yesterday,  instead  of  all 
those  long  years  ago.  There  had  stood  the 
little  girl  eagerly  telling  him  her  absurd  story, 
to  which  he  listened  with  amused  forbearance, 
thinking  to  himself  that  he  must  not  vex  her 
by  incredulity,  and  carelessly  noticing  how 
swiftly  her  small  face  flushed,  and  how 
brightly  her  large  eyes  shone  in  the  excite- 
ment of  her  narrative.  And  to-day  the  same 
thing  seemed  coming  to  pass  again — but  with 
differences.  For  here  unchanged  in  the  sun- 
shine was  the  dark  stone  block  with  its  yellow 
dappling  of  lichen,  and  that  same  clear  voice 
came  to  him  across  it,  speaking  so  much  in 
earnest  that  the  transparent  flower-flush  rose 
and  the  glance  brightened  just  as  of  old.     But 


THE    KEYS    OF   THE    CHEST      67 

the  small  child  had  grown  into  a  tall  maiden, 
and  her  voice  was  the  one  that  gave  meaning 
to  all  the  other  sounds  in  his  world,  and  her 
absurd  story  no  longer  amused  him  in  the 
least,  seemed  liker  breaking  his  heart,  seemed 
the  pronouncing  of  an  evil  spell,  that  blurred 
the  light  of  his  eyes,  and  conjured  up  a  web 
of  black  forebodings  over  the  fair  horizon  of 
his  future.  If  the  soft-aired  spring  morning 
had  suddenly  began  to  scowl  and  keen 
around  him,  and  sting  him  with  frozen  pellets, 
it  would  have  faintly  shadowed  forth  the 
transition.  A  man's  mood,  however,  may  fall 
from  one  level  to  another  in  much  less  time 
than  it  takes  to  tell,  and  Eileen  thought  his 
answer  came  quickly. 

"  Don't  you  know  that  you  're  talking 
nonsense,  Eileen  ?  "    he  said. 

She  had  never  heard  him  speak  so  sharply, 
almost  roughly — not  even  when  he  had  seen 
his  case  of  mathematical  instruments  dropped 
by  Hughey  Brian  into  the  bottomless  bog- 
hole,  nor  when  he  had  come  upon  the 
Donnellys'  little  goat  tethered  with  the 
remnant  of  an  urgently-needed  and  long- 
sought  measuring-line.  And  she  was  imme- 
diately aware  that  the  very  worst  had  befallen. 


68      A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

Her  plan  was  impracticable,  and  she  had 
disgusted  Pierce  by  proposing  it.  The  poor 
Glendoula  people  must  starve,  and  her  cousin, 
who  had  been  so  good-natured,  could  never 
like  her  any  more.  Probably  he  considered 
her  request  worthy  of  a  dishonestly-minded 
idiot,  and  was  deeply,  perhaps  justly,  offended 
at  her  suggestion  that  he  should  take  part  in 
such  a  transaction.  Certainly,  he  would  not 
hear  of  the  scheme,  so  all  her  hopes  were 
scattered  like  mist  before  a  hurrying  wind, 
and  there  again  loomed  the  grim  trouble 
ahead,  with  its  inexorable  face  turned  unveiled 
upon  her.  Just  at  that  moment,  however,  it 
was  partially  screened  by  the  interposition  of 
a  still  uglier  one,  which  would  thrust  itself 
between,  asking  and  answering  a  question 
with  the  same  tormenting  result :  What  must 
Pierce  be  thinking  of  her?  He  had  surely 
meant  worse  than  "  nonsense." 

Amid  this  rude  crowding  in  on  her  of 
disappointment  jostling  with  grief  and  morti- 
fication, Eileen  clung  half-consciously  to  the 
sense  that  it  behoved  her  by  all  means 
to  retain  the  footing  of  her  self-possession, 
and  she  replied  very  gently :  "  Not  exactly 
nonsense,  I  think  ;    but  perhaps — I   daresay  it 


THE    KEYS    OF    THE    CHEST       69 

would  be  quite  out  of  the  question  to  take 
these  things  now,  and  not  even  right.  It 
seemed  to  me  the  only  way  I  could  do  any- 
thing to  help  the  people,  but  of  course  I 
knew  it  mightn't  be  possible  at  all.  I  don't 
understand  much  about  the  law.  Don't  you 
think  it  's  getting  rather  cold  up  here  ? 
Perhaps  we'd  be  wiser  to  come  back  before 
the  day  clouds  over." 

This  dignified  composure  seemed  to  Pierce 
as  it  were  a  seal  set  upon  his  fear,  the 
document  of  which  her  fantastic  story  had 
supplied,  and  he  dejectedly  turned  down  the 
hill-path  with  her  in  silence.  The  sullen- 
looking  stone  which  they  left  behind  them,  a 
blot  on  the  sunny  sward,  might  have  been  a 
little  ancient  altar  to  some  unpropitious  God, 
whence  they  were  taking  home,  sorrowfully, 
discomfortable  oracles.  In  truth,  one  of  them 
had  there  said  farewell  to  an  old  hope,  and 
the  other  struck  up  an  acquaintance  with 
a  new  fear ;  both  experiences  apt  to  arouse 
pre-occupying  meditations.  Neither  of  the 
cousins  gave  much  heed  to  their  surroundings 
as  they  went.  The  small  wild  clouds  flirted 
the  sunshine  about  as  if  flocks  of  white  wings 
were  flickering  by ;   here  and   there  they  flung 


70      A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

down  the  shadows  which  make  one  marvel 
how  their  "  Httle-seeming  substance "  can  be 
the  cause  of  such  deep  purple  stains.  But 
now  nobody  marked  them,  nor  the  far-off 
pipe  of  the  plover,  nor  the  fragrance  of  the 
basking  herbage  underfoot. 

Thus  they  presently  came  to  the  gapped 
dyke  leading  into  the  first  field,  and  all  the 
way  neither  of  them  had  spoken  a  word. 
Now,  at  that  moment  it  happened  that  Eileen 
was  looking  very  straight  before  her,  with  her 
head  held  rather  high,  and  her  eyes  steadily 
opened,  to  give  the  tears  a  chance  of  going 
back  the  way  they  had  come,  and  walking 
warily  as  one  who  felt  how  even  the  quiver 
of  an  eyelash  might  be  fatal.  Yet  these 
precautions  defeated  themselves,  for  they  were 
the  reason  why  she  stumbled  at  the  flat 
stepping-stones,  so  that  Pierce  had  to  save 
her  from  falling  just  as  he  had  done  nearly 
nine  years  before.  This  time,  however,  he 
did  not  let  her  go  again  with  a  laugh.  He 
held  her  close  and  said :  "  Oh,  my  darling,  my 
sweetheart,  don't  be  vexed,  don't  be  vexed. 
It  will  be  all  right,  never  fear.  We  '11  pull 
them  through — all  of  them — safely  somehow. 
Don't  think   about   that   old   silver  any  more ; 


THE    KEYS    OF   THE    CHEST       71 

and  you  won't  mind  what  I  said  just  now? 
I  'm  a  stupid  brute,  you  see,  sweetheart ;  but 
there's  nothing  on  earth  that  I  wouldn't  do 
for  you." 

While  she  listened  to  this  statement,  Eileen 
went  through,  in  an  intensified  form,  an 
experience  somewhat  resembling  that  of  the 
bygone  summer  morning  when  the  unknown 
Pierce  had  first  spoken  to  her :  a  sudden 
surging  up  of  dread,  that  wave-like  took  her 
off  her  feet  for  the  instant,  but  only  to  lift 
her  unharmed  into  a  new  world,  most  beauti- 
fully strange,  and  shut  out  from  all  troubles 
of  the  mere  earth  with  the  light  that  never 
was  on  land  or  sea.  A  reflection  of  it  in 
her  eyes  encouraged  him  to  pursue  that  line 
of  argument,  and  he  said  a  great  deal  more, 
all  much  to  the  same  purport,  as  they  went 
down  the  steep  green  fields,  where  the  young 
bracken  -  fronds  were  uncoiling  their  flossy 
silken  whorls  beneath  last  season's  weather- 
beaten  brown  plumes,  and  the  golden  blossom- 
flakes  were  melting  off  the  tall  winter  furzes ; 
and  then  on  between  the  fledged  boles  of  the 
elm-grove,  and  under  the  scented  shadow  of 
the  laurel-walk,  until  at  the  hall-door  Eileen 
ran   away   to   make   a   solitary   survey  of  the 


72       A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

unexplored  regions  in  which  she  had  wonder- 
fully arrived.  Just  for  the  moment  Pierce 
felt  gratefully  disposed  towards  the  big  stone, 
which  had,  at  all  events,  given  him  his  cue. 


But  later  on  that  afternoon  he  spoke  very 
bitterly  to  his  Aunt  Geraldine,  whom  he 
found  alone  in  the  book-room.  The  hearing 
of  candid  opinions  is  a  privilege  not  un- 
commonly enjoyed  by  spinister  aunts. 

"You've  kept  her  moping  here  all  these 
years,"  he  said,  "without  companions  or 
amusement  or  occupation,  till  it 's  no  wonder 
that  she  has  taken  up  queer  fancies.  Why, 
it  was  enough  to  drive  her — to  make  anybody 
unlike  other  people.  Surely  you  might  have 
managed  better  for  her  somehow." 

"  It  really  wouldn't  have  been  easy,"  his 
aunt  said,  but  meekly  on  the  defensive ;  "  we 
always  have  had  so  little  ready  money,  and 
then  your  poor  Aunt  Gerald's  wretched  health 
is  another  difficulty.  Besides  that,  I  never 
noticed  anything  odd  about  Eileen.  She 
always  seems  contented  and  cheerful  enough, 
and  I  thought  she  was  a  sensible  sort  of  child, 
and  very  quiet.     Just  once  or  twice,  now  that 


THE    KEYS    OF   THE    CHEST       73 

I  think  of  it,  she  has  said  something  that  rather 
puzzled  me  about  a  plate-chest,  but  I  had  no 
idea  she  had  any  delusion  of  the  kind." 

"  Yes,  that 's  just  where  it  is ;  nobody  has 
cared  to  look  after  her  or  take  any  trouble 
about  her,"  Pierce  said,  wrathful  and  reproach- 
ful, a  little  unreasonably;  so  fresh  was  his 
discovery  that  concern  for  Eileen's  welfare 
ought  to  be  the  prime  consideration  in  every 
rightly  ordered  mind.  He  did  not  surmise, 
either,  that  he  was  upbraiding  a  friend.  Yet 
such  was  the  case.  For,  from  the  very  first 
evening,  their  Aunt  Geraldine  had  guessed 
whither  things  were  tending,  and  ever  since 
had  been  watching  their  course,  a  melancholy 
sort  of  Prospero,  who  was  powerless  to  work 
any  wonders,  and  whose  joy  at  nothing  could 
be  much,  but  who  did  feel  some  pleasure  in  the 
growing  likelihood  that  her  favourite  sister's 
son  would  some  day  reign  in  the  wreck  of  the 
old  place,  and  take  charge  of  the  person  whom 
she  had  always  regarded  half-pityingly,  half- 
impatiently  as  "  Eileen,  poor  child."  Therefore 
the  cropping  up  of  this  ominous  obstacle  was 
a  disappointment  by  which  she  felt  so  cast  down 
that  she  had  not  the  spirit  to  rebut  with  any 
energy  the  accusation  of  contributory  negligence. 


74      A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

Neither  she  nor  Pierce  had  spoken  of  the 
circumstances  that  lent  the  matter  its  menacing 
aspect,  but  they  were  uppermost  in  the  mind 
of  each.  What  made  Eileen's  futile  story 
sound  so  warningly  in  their  ears  was  the 
remembered  existence  of  that  baneful  spectre 
whose  mischief  might  be  traced  among  the 
annals  of  the  Fitzmaurice  family,  as  well  in 
the  notorious  eccentricities  which  had  pre- 
luded poor  Sir  Gerald's  last  desperate  act,  as 
in  the  more  or  less  pronounced  oddities  and 
deficiencies  which  had  wrought  the  history 
of  this  kinsman  and  the  other  into  a  tragedy 
with  a  grotesquer  plot. 

"  I  can't  think  what  has  put  such  a  notion 
into  her  head,"  Miss  Fitzmaurice  said  de- 
jectedly. The  workings  of  Eileen's  mind  could 
hardly  indeed  have  been  more  remote  from 
her  observation  if  they  had  gone  on  in  a 
different  planet.  "  But,  after  all.  Pierce,  if  one 
considers  how  young  she  is  —  scarcely  more 
than  a  child." 

"  No  reasonable  child  would  believe  any- 
thing so  preposterous,"  Pierce  replied  with 
gloom.  "  A  rough  lump  of  a  boulder  with 
moss  growing  in  the  cracks ! " 

"And  did  you  tell  her  so?"  asked  his  aunt. 


THE    KEYS    OF   THE    CHEST       75 

"Well,  no,  not  exactly;  we  began  talking 
about  something  else,  and  I  thought  I  'd  better 
see  whether  you  knew  anything  about  it ;  but 
apparently  you  don't,"  said  Pierce. 

"  Oh,  you  must  just  laugh  her  out  of  it,"  his 
aunt  said,  laughing  nervously  herself,  and  had 
not  any  more  helpful  suggestion  to  offer. 
Pierce  left  the  interview  dissatisfied  and  un- 
reassured. 


Towards  sunsetting,  however,  he  found  him- 
self once  more  on  the  summit  of  Slieve 
Ardgreine.  He  had  promised  to  go  and  see 
after  Barney  Foyle,  who  had  been  "  took  bad 
wid  the  road-sickness "  on  the  day  before,  and 
as  the  Foyles'  cabin  stood  by  the  side  of  the 
Clonmoragh  road,  his  shortest  route  was  up 
and  down  through  the  Nick  of  Time.  The 
sight  of  the  solitary  boulder,  squatting  there 
starkly  black  amid  the  flushed  western  glow, 
made  him  realise  his  trouble  with  much 
searching  of  heart.  It  seemed  a  symbol,  or 
something  more  than  a  symbol,  a  visible 
tangible  embodiment  of  the  obstruction  which 
had  thrust  itself  into  the  clear  path  of  his 
desires.      Now,    Pierce    Wilmot   was    alike  by 


76      A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

nature  and  training  a  person  who  could  not, 
without  great  and  grudging  reluctance,  admit  im- 
pediments to  his  progress  along  the  way  where- 
in he  would  go ;  and  in  this  case  he  felt  more 
loth  than  ever  before.  As  he  crossed  the 
stretch  of  sward  towards  the  gap,  he  eyed  the 
dark  mass  with  a  hot  thrill  of  resentment,  as 
if  against  somebody  who  had  wittingly  baulked 
and  baffled  him.  Yet  withal  it  was  for  him  so 
obviously  nothing  more  than  just  an  ordinary 
lump  of  limestone,  that  in  view  of  it  Eileen's 
quaint  belief  took  a  stronger  tinge  of  unreason. 
Nor  did  he  possess,  to  soften  it  down,  any 
knowledge  of  how  the  seed  had  been  sown  in 
her  mind,  and  had  grown  up,  fostered  and 
never  disturbed,  through  the  long  years  of  a 
lonely  childhood.  So,  for  a  few  paces,  his 
heart  sank  and  sank,  till  it  reached  depths 
where  a  poignant  pity  was  the  most  endurable 
element  in  his  mood. 

But  before  he  reached  the  Nick  of  Time, 
an  idea  that  flashed  across  him  made  him 
deviate  several  yards  to  the  right,  and  walk 
up  to  the  big  stone.  He  stood  still  beside  it, 
reflecting  for  a  while,  and  then  gave  it  a  slight 
kick,  as  though  to  mark  his  arrival  at  some 
definite  conclusion.     At  that   moment  he  was 


THE    KEYS    OF   THE    CHEST       77 

saying  to  himself:  "  In  any  case  it  would  be 
better  out  of  this ;  and  I  '11  do  it  the  first 
thing  to-morrow,  by  Jove  I  will !  Then  I  '11 
bring  her  up  here,  and  the  charlces  are  that 
when  once  she's  seen  it  in  fragments  she'll 
never  give  the  matter  another  thought.  There 
was  that  young  fellow  the  Barnards  knew,  who 
got  rid  of  a  curious  hallucination  in  much  the 
same  sort  of  way.  They  burned  an  old  paper 
on  which  he  had  taken  it  into  his  head  that 
the  safety  of  the  whole  world  depended ;  and 
when  he  found  that  nothing  happened,  he 
grew  perfectly  rational  about  it.  And  so  will 
she.  For  indeed  she's  as  sensible  as  anybody 
can  be,  except  just  on  that  one  point,  which 
won't  signify  an  atom,  if  it's  taken  in  time. 
It's  a  good  job  the  notion  occurred  to  me. 
Ay,  that's  the  kind  of  key  I  must  get  you, 
sweetheart — poor  little  Bright-Eyes.  However, 
I  '11  take  good  care  that  she  shan't  be  vexed 
about  it.  So  there  '11  be  a  short  end  of  you,  you 
old  stookawn,  and  joy  go  with  you,"  he  said 
half-aloud,  with  a  defiant  flourish  of  his  black- 
thorn towards  the  big  stone,  which,  as  he  turned 
his  back  upon  it,  flung  a  long,  murky  shadow 
after  him,  like  a  scowl,  over  the  sheeny  grass. 


78      A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

The  next  morning  did  not  smile  upon  any- 
one's undertakings ;  rather,  it  might  be  said 
to  survey  them  unsympathetically  through  a 
blank,  expressionless  mask.  For  Letterglas 
and  all  its  neighbouring  glens  were  full  of  a 
white  fog.  It  was  not  merely  the  soft  mist 
that  clings  about  distant  tree  -  clumps  and 
cabin-clusters  when  the  sun  is  still  low,  and 
uncurls  slowly,  peeling  off  from  round  them, 
while  he  climbs,  giving  one  an  impression  that 
the  landscape  is  a  fragile  work  of  art,  not  yet 
quite  finished  careful  unpacking  out  of  delicate 
cotton-wool  wrappings.  All  the  night  through 
a  vast  white  cloud  had  been  adrift  thither  from 
the  westward,  over  seas,  hanging  low  always, 
and  sometimes  trailing  on  the  very  face  of  the 
water  like  a  huge  disabled  pinion.  Beneath  it 
the  dim  blue  tide  had  crept  to  the  limitary 
foot  of  the  cliffs,  furtively,  as  if  from  an 
ambush ;  but  the  wavering  ribbon  of  weed 
and  froth  set  no  boundary  for  the  thronging 
vapour-masses,  which  passed  on  wafted  inland 
through  rifts  and  over  crests,  till  at  length 
the  escorting  breeze  dropped  and  left  them 
halted  motionless,  a  crowd  checked  by  in- 
visible barriers.  Round  about  Glendoula  they 
made   all   the   valleys   into   one,   spanning   the 


THE    KEYS    OF   THE    CHEST       79 

ravines  with  ghostly  causeways  and  bridges, 
and  levelHng  the  peaks,  lost  among  aerial 
snowfields.  The  curd-white  impenetrable  wall 
looked  at  a  few  yards'  distance  so  dense  and 
solid  that  the  thought  of  walking  through  it 
almost  took  away  one's  breath,  and  people 
about  to  emerge  from  it  loomed  along  with 
such  dim,  unsubstantial  shapes  that  their 
voices  sounded  startlingly  loud  and  near. 

Yet,  notwithstanding  these  obstructive  con- 
ditions, work'  was  going  on  in  Letterglas 
valley,  where  wheel-barrows  trundled  to  and 
fro  invisibly,  tilting  out  clattering  loads,  and 
picks  swung  unseen  till  one  stood  close  to  the 
wielder's  elbow.  Pierce,  the  inspector,  had  made 
his  way  thither,  gropingly,  at  an  early  hour, 
having  a  special  job  in  view,  which  he  was 
anxious  to  get  done  as  soon  as  might  be. 
But  since  a  field  of  vision  wider  than  the 
present  was  desirable  for  his  operations,  he 
consulted  the  weather-wise  among  his  men  as 
to  the  probability  of  the  fog  clearing  off.  In 
old  Murtagh  Reilly's  opinion,  which  was  highly 
esteemed  upon  such  points,  this  might  be 
expected  to  take  place  before  they  were 
much  older. 

"  I    wouldn't   wonder   if  it   was   very  apt   to 


8o      A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

be  givin'  itself  a  heft  agin  we  're  done  breakfast, 
your  honour,"  he  said  ;  "  and  once  it  fairly  gits 
a  rise  on  it,  it  won't  be  long  streelin'  itself 
off  otit  of  your  way.  It's  quare  somewhiles 
to  see  the  rate  them  mists  'ill  be  skytin'  up 
the  hillside  at,  and  not  a  breath  of  win'  stirrin' 
that  'ud  thrimble  the  feather  of  steam  whiffin' 
out  of  an  ould  kettle's  spout,  let  alone  liftin* 
a  big  cloud  fit  to  thatch  a  townland." 

"  Sure  it 's  the  sun  shinin'  on  the  wrong  side 
of  them  does  be  drawin'  them  up,"  said  Christy 
Martin  instructively,  "like  as  if  they  was  a 
wet  shirt  shrinkin'  in  front  of  the  fire.  The 
flannen's  a  terror  for  cocklin'  up  into  nothin' 
if  the  hate's  too  strong  for  it." 

"  I  dunno  where  the  great  likeness  is  then," 
said  old  Reilly,  who  had  not  a  taste  for 
instruction. 

"  Maybe  there 's  not,  Christy,"  said  Christy's 
brother  Willy ;  "  very  belike  there  is  not.  But 
all  the  same,  you  and  me'd  be  glad  enough  of  a 
pinny  for  ivery  time  we  've  seen  the  sun  comin* 
out  red  on  this  side,  lookin'  the  livin'  moral 
of  a  hot  cinder  burnin'  through  a  blanket." 

"  Have  it  your  own  way,  lads,"  said  old 
Reilly,  sublimely  abandoning  the  whole  ex- 
panse of  the  heavens  to  them  with  a  compre- 


THE    KEYS    OF   THE    CHEST      81 

hensive  flourish  of  his  hand.  "  Howsomiver, 
your  honour,  if  you  was  axin'  me,  I  'd  say  this 
day's  apter  than  not  to  be  takin'  up  prisintly, 
or  next  door  to  it,  as  thick  as  it  is  this 
instiant  minyit." 

Old  Reilly  seemed  to  have  said  truly,  for 
by  the  time  that  everybody  rose  from  the 
sodded  bank,  on  which  some  of  them  had 
been  eating  slices  of  bread  as  they  sat — others 
were  in  the  same  plight  as  John  O'Mahony, 
who  remarked  humorously  that  it  saved  a 
dale  of  throuble  to  have  your  breakfast  yister- 
day  or  else  to-morra — there  was  a  perceptible 
curtailment  in  the  flowing  drapery  of  the  hill- 
slopes,  and  a  thinning  of  its  texture,  paler 
shimmering  brightness  running  through  it  here 
and  there,  to  show  that  the  opaque  folds 
might  shake  out  into  diaphanous  tissues  of 
pearl  and  silver. 

Accordingly,  a  small  knot  of  men  by-and-by 
detached  themselves  from  the  rest,  and  began 
to  ascend  towards  the  Nick  of  Time,  whose 
gap  was  still  hidden  by  an  ample  curtain. 
Pierce  was  one  of  the  party,  which  carried 
up  with  it  a  supply  of  gritty  black  grains 
and  sundry  coercive-looking  tools.  He  invited 
Murtagh  Reilly  to   accompany   them,  but  the 


82       A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

old  man  cried  off  the  expedition.  "  I  'm 
thinkin'  I  '11  stop  where  I  am,"  he  said,  "  for 
these  times  when  there  does  be  a  notorious 
curse  on  the  counthry,  and  the  hungry-grass 
growin'  over  ivery  inch  of  it,  troth  it 's  as  much 
as  a  man's  life 's  worth — and  if  that 's  no  great 
things,  it's  the  most  he  has — to  be  settin'  his 
misfortnit  fut  e'er  a  step  further  than  he's 
bound.  But  you  've  a  plinty  of  the  lads  along 
widout  me,  your  honour." 

•  ••••• 

Just  at  the  same  time,  Larry  M'Farlane  also 
set  off  up  the  slope,  by  a  different  route  from 
the  others,  however,  and  with  a  different  goal. 
He  was  taking  the  shortest  way  to  the  Big 
House  down  at  the  bottom  of  Glendoula. 
The  fog  there  had  begun  to  recede  a  little 
earlier  than  in  Letterglas,  but  still  muffled 
things  very  closely,  making  mysteries  of  the 
most  familiar  objects,  and  Larry,  who,  to  judge 
by  his  headlong  bounds  and  plunges  all  the 
way,  might  have  been  racing  for  at  lea«t  his 
life,  collided  more  than  once  with  a  tree-trunk 
when  he  came  among  the  plantations.  And 
he  reached  the  house  panting,  only  to  run  up 
against  more  hampering  blocks  of  delay.  For 
in  the  kitchen  was  nobody  except  Mrs  Dunlop, 


THE    KEYS    OF   THE    CHEST      83 

the  cook,  busied  with  frizzling  preparations  for 
the  breakfast,  and  all  she  could  be  got  to  say- 
was,  "  Aw,  ax  Mr  Gabbett,  Larry  man ;  he  '11  be 
apt  to  know  if  she 's  after  goin'  out,  and  if  she 
isn't,  she  might  be  indures  yit"  And  when 
he  rushed  on  to  the  pantry,  old  Timothy,  who 
had  overheard  the  voice  of  an  unfavoured 
visitor,  shot  the  bolt  of  the  door,  and  was  long 
deaf  to  all  thumps  and  calls.  In  fact,  Larry, 
the  urgency  of  whose  errand  divided  every 
minute  infinitely,  was  turning  away  in  despair, 
when  the  old  man  shouted  a  surly,  "What's 
a-wantin?"  and  he  had  to  waste  another  tor- 
menting interval  before  a  churlish  chink  opened. 

"Wantin'  to  spake  to  Miss  Eileen?"  said 
old  Timothy.  "Then  want '11  be  your  master, 
me  hayro  of  war,  for  I  seen  her  goin'  out 
a  while  back.  So  if  that's  what  all  you  had 
the  prancin'  in  the  passage  for,  like  a  cross- 
tempered  carriage-horse  kep'  standin'  in  a 
could  win' " 

"  Murther  alive  and  wirrasthrew  and  bad 
luck  to  it,"  Larry  said,  "  what  '11  I  do  at  all 
now?  And  which  way  did  she  go,  Mr 
Gabbett?  Was  it  up  Slieve  Ardgreine  she 
wint,  do  you  suppose?  For  it's  biddin'  her 
keep  off  goin'  up  it  I  'd  be." 


84      A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

"Well  to  be  sure,  and  set  you  up  Your- 
self's  the  great  one  to  be  givin'  your  orders. 
And  how  the  mischief  could  I  be  tellin'  you 
where  she's  went,  except  be  the  sound  of  the 
hall  -  door  clappin'  ?  But  I  dunno  what  'd 
take  her  sthreelin'  very  far  up  the  hill,  unless 
she  was  wishful  to  lose  herself  body  and  bones 
in  the  thick  of  the  fog  that  you  might  take 
and  cut  like  the  side  of  a  rick.  And  if  you  're 
from  the  place  where  they're  workin',  sure 
you'd  ha'  met  her  comin'  along,  supposin* 
she's  gone  that  way." 

"  I  might  ha'  passed  her  by  twinty  times 
over  unbeknownst,  up  about  the  top  of  the 
fields,  where  you  couldn't  see  a  goat's  horns 
and  tail  together,"  said  Larry ;  "  nor  I  wasn't 
keepin'  along  be  the  path  the  most  part  of 
the  way ;  I  just  slapped  down  the  shortest 
I  could.  But  if  I  'd  had  the  wit  of  an  ould 
blind  crow,  I  would  ha'  sted  oh  her  own  path, 
and  then  I  might  ha'  stopped  her.  But  I  '11  be 
hard  set  now  to  git  a  chance  of  findin'  her  at  all." 

With  that,  Larry  bolted  away  too  hurriedly 
for  any  further  questions,  thus  frustrating  the 
curiosity  of  old  Timothy,  left  wondering  "  What 
for  in  the  nation  the  bosthoon  would  be 
warnin'  Miss  Eileen  off  the  hill,"  a  riddle  for 


THE    KEYS    OF   THE    CHEST      85 

which  he  could    invent    himself   no    plausible 
answer. 


Larry's  surmise  was  partly  right,  Eileen  having 
in  reality  been  on  her  leisurely  way  up  Slieve 
Ardgreine  while  he  sped  hot-foot  down  it. 
She  had  slept  little  in  the  night,  and  would 
have  almost  grudged  that  little,  had  it  not  been 
for  the  pleasantness  of  waking  to  the  recollec- 
tion that  she  was  not  only  dreaming.  The  last 
time  she  did  so,  the  silvery  lines  framing  the 
shuttered  window,  though  but  faint  as  yet, 
convinced  her  that  it  could  not  be  too  early  to 
get  up.  Rising,  she  was  fascinated  by  the 
spectacle  of  one  of  the  snow-whitest  and 
stillest  fogs  she  had  ever  seen  in  the  dozen 
years  or  so  during  which  she  had  been  capable 
of  meteorological  observations ;  and  she  stood 
looking  on  at  it  for  some  time.  But  when  the 
fabric  of  the  spacious  pavilion  began  to  give 
ground  a  little  and  sway  to  and  fro,  restoring 
glimpses  of  a  substantial  world  and  shifting 
them  away  again,  no  longer  contented  with  her 
watch  from  the  window,  she  determined  to  run 
out  and  survey  more  thoroughly  this  rare  aspect 
of  things.     On  the  way  downstairs  she  stopped 


86      A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

to  tap  at  her  mother's  door,  very  softly — a 
velvet-suited  bee  would  have  made  more  noise 
flying  against  it  —  hoping  to  be  let  in,  and 
fearing  to  rouse  a  sleeper.  An  answer  did  set 
out  to  her,  but  the  feeble  drowsy  voice  failed  to 
reach  her,  so  she  stole  on  cautiously,  a  little 
sorry  that  she  must  put  off  her  good  morning 
until  she  should  return.  Eileen  was  wearing  a 
favourite  blue  and  white  mousseline-de-laine, 
and  had  not  forgotten  to  fasten  its  collar  with 
her  silver  key.  Over  her  head  she  had  thrown 
a  grey  woollen  shawl,  because  the  April  morn- 
ing air  was  soft  rather  than  warm.  It  was  a 
somewhat  shabby  old  shawl,  and  Eileen  vainly 
reflected  that  if  she  met  anybody  she  could 
^ust  slip  it  off  and  be  carrying  it  on  her  arm. 
Anybody  might  be  coming  down  the  hill 
home  to  his  breakfast  about  this  time,  and  the 
long  aisle  of  the  elm-walk,  where  the  straight 
trunk  columns  showed  themselves  momentarily 
and  vanished  as  the  mist-wreaths  floated  and 
melted  through  them,  was  weirdly  alluring. 
When  Eileen  had  followed  it  to  its  end,  she 
found  another  vista  opening  before  her  out  on 
the  green  slope,  closed  ever  and  anon,  and 
temptingly  cleared  again  by  capricious  wafts  of 
dimness.     For  as  she  went  there  was  setting  in 


THE    KEYS    OF   THE    CHEST       87 

a  general  movement  among  all  that  great 
gathering  of  vapours ;  their  assembly  was 
lingeringly  breaking  up ;  a  spectral  city  going 
to  wrack.  Vast  cloaked  and  hooded  shapes 
seemed  curtseying  ceremoniously  to  one  another 
from  opposite  sides  of  the  glens,  while  here  and 
there  some  loftily  towering  pile  might  be  seen  to 
betray  the  frailness  of  its  structure  by  a  shivering 
from  top  to  base  like  that  of  a  sail  in  a  veering 
wind.  But  hardly  a  breath  was  stirring  in 
Glendoula,  so  that  the  dispersion  proceeded 
by  very  slow  degrees,  with  many  fitful  pauses. 
Eileen's  little  footpath  led  her  so  closely  in 
the  wake  of  a  receding  cloud-wave  that  she 
could  watch  the  bracken-plumes  emerge  frond 
by  frond  from  its  filmy  borders,  and  descry  the 
gold  of  the  furze-blossom  glimmering  through 
the  white,  before  the  sombre  branches  became 
visible.  On  either  hand,  low  trailing  fleeces 
were  caught  and  carded  into  filaments  on 
tussocks  and  bents  and  briers.  Farther  up  it 
seemed  as  if  a  spectral  net  cast  over  the  hills 
were  being  hauled  in  with  torn  meshes  teased 
and  tangled.  And  behind  all  this  shadowy 
shifting  drifting  there  were  vague  motions  of 
light,  hinted  at  by  sudden  wan  shimmerings  of 
the  canopy  that  screened  it. 


88      A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

Eileen  was  always  half  intending  to  turn 
back,  yet  she  went  on  and  on,  sometimes 
noticing  these  things,  and  occasionally  stopping 
to  gather  a  shrivelled  dandelion  bud,  or  a  russet 
plantain  head  for  the  old  moping  parrot  in  the 
parlour  at  home,  until  at  last  she  knew  that  she 
must  have  come  near  the  stone  chest.  It  had 
no  bitter  associations  for  her  now.  Rather  she 
would  have  looked  upon  it  as  the  auspicious 
starting-point  whence  she  had  fared  to  the 
highest  fortune.  Even  the  failure  of  her  scheme 
for  producing  a  relief  fund  did  not  any  longer 
grieve  her,  for  Pierce  had  undertaken  that  help 
would  be  forthcoming,  and  to  Pierce's  keeping 
she  had  transferred  herself,  responsibilities  and 
all,  which  she  found  a  wonderful  ease  to  her 
mind.  So  light  of  heart,  indeed,  it  made  her 
that  she  now  began  softly  to  sing  a  sorrowful 
little  ditty,  which  she  used  long  ago  to  hear 
crooned  by  her  poor  old  nurse,  who  had  a 
turn  for  sentiment : 

**  Oh   sunn^   blooms   Slienie   Cry  an,  nvhere    the    gold   boughs 

creep  together. 
With  honey  on  the  high  cliff  in  ten  thousand  bells  of  heather. 
For  the  morn  that  fears  no  morro-iv  is  there  bliss  in  fivwer 

and  bee. 
And  in  one  heart  sorro^w,  sorranu,  for  the  hope  that  luafit 

to  sear 


"  THE    KEYS    OF   THE    CHEST      89 

But  as  she  sang,  in  a  voice  small  and  sweet, 
of  this  heart  sorrow,  she  looked  on  before  her 
with  shining  eyes,  very  sure  of  seeing  all  she 
wanted  to  crown  the  moment's  gladness  come 
presently  to  meet  her  from  among  the  shroud- 
ing white  mists. 

Hidden  among  them  just  then,  not  many  yards 
away,  half-a-dozen  people  were  at  work  around 
the  big  bpulder,  digging  and  boring,  with  frequent 
mention  in  their  discourse  of  needles  and  trains 
and  matches.  Their  operations  were  by  this 
time,  however,  nearly  finished,  and  after  the 
last  of  them,  which  was  the  kindling  of  a  lack- 
lustre red  flare  with  a  sheet  of  grease-stained 
brown  paper,  the  whole  party  withdrew  hastily 
through  the  Nick  of  Time,  and  retreating  some 
little  distance  down  the  slope  on  the  other  side, 
stood  still  in  apparent  expectation  of  an  event. 
It  happened  very  soon.  First  a  fierce  sharp- 
edged  clatter,  that  crashed  into  a  booming 
roar,  followed  by  a  duller  sound  of  rushing 
thuds,  as  if  a  scattered  flock  of  unwieldy  birds 
had  swooped  down  close  at  hand  in  headlong 
flight.  An  abrupt  silence  succeeded,  for  few 
echoes  gossip  among  the  Letterglas  hills.  It 
must  have  lasted  unbroken  for   a   long  minute 


90      A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

at  least.  For  the  men  had  re-entered  through 
the  gap,  where  they  found  the  fog  thickened  by 
a  sulphurous  reek,  and  Pierce,  making  out 
amid  it  the  expected  new  vacant  place,  was 
considering  how  he  would  now  hurry  home 
and  fetch  Eileen  hither  as  soon  as  possible,  that 
there  might  be  no  further  delay  in  the  clearance 
of  their  pleasant  path — "  my  sweetheart,"  he  was 
saying  to  himself  with  a  remorseful  remembrance 
of  her  sad  eyes  yesterday — when  the  air  filled, 
the  wide  world  filled  as  if  it  could  never  empty 
again,  with  a  shriek  and  a  shriek  reiterated, 
shrill  and  wild,  you  could  not  have  told 
whether  man's  or  woman's,  hardly  whether  a 
human  being's,  it  was  a  skirl  of  such  sheer 
despair.  Yet  Pierce  thought  he  recognised  in 
it  a  name  that  snatched  away  his  breath. 

"  What  was  that,  man  ?  What  is  it  ?  "  he  said, 
pulling  the  sleeve  of  Paddy  Murray,  who  was 
nearest  to  him. 

"  Somebody 's  hurted  for  sartin,"  declared 
Paddy. 

But  this  was  probably  a  mistake.  The 
fragment  of  the  big  stone  that  had  struck 
Eileen  on  the  temple,  seemingly  had  thereby 
opened  for  her  and  shut  the  dark  door,  whose 
threshold    the    senses   may    not    cross,    all    in 


THE    KEYS    OF   THE    CHEST      91 

an  instant,  before  the  happiness  could  fade 
out  of  her  face,  or  the  little  bunch  of  carefully- 
gathered  weeds  drop  from  her  hand.  It  might, 
by  the  way,  be  feared  that  poor  Polly  would 
enjoy  no  more  such  feasts  henceforward  to  the 
end  of  his  tedious  days. 

Larry  M'Farlane  it  was,  arrived  with  his 
belated  warning,  who  had  raised  the  outcry 
on  beholding  this  proof  that  his  panic-stricken 
hurry  had  been  all  bootless,  and  that  the  evil 
dream  which  had  possessed  him  ever  since 
he  casually  overheard  talk  of  Mr  Pierce's 
project  was  come  most  terribly  true.  Some 
of  the  others  now  bade  him  whisht  and  run 
for  Dr  Blake  and  Father  O'Connor,  who 
might  both  of  them  very  belike  be  below  at 
Denroche's  cottages,  where  the  Maddens  and 
young  Joe  Hanlon  were  mortal  bad  last 
night;  though,  for  the  matther  of  that,  it  was 
aisy  enough  to  see  there 'd  be  little  anybody 
could  do  here  —  goodness  pity  them  all.  But 
as  there  was  nothing  else  whatever  that  Pierce 
could  do  —  he  who  used  to  be  so  ready  with 
resources — he  fixed  his  mind  upon  their  coming 
with  a  desperate  grip,  while  he  stood  by  and 
waited  idly. 


92      A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

He  felt  bewildered,  chiefly  by  the  sameness 
of  most  things,  which  were  unaccountably 
going  on  much  as  they  had  been  doing  a 
minute  before,  when  Eileen  could  have  spoken 
to  him.  The  white  mists  were  still  curtseying 
to  one  another  across  wider  spaces  in  the 
valley,  and  the  dim  light  behind  them  grew 
slowly  stronger.  There  was  a  scent  of  turf- 
smoke  on  the  air  from  a  fire  which  someone 
had  lit  under  a  bank  a  little  way  down  the 
hill.  The  very  strokes  of  old  Dan  Heron's 
hammer  continued  to  come  up  in  a  faint  rap- 
tap  from  the  roadside,  where  he  was  break- 
ing lumps  of  reddish  sandstone ;  for  Dan  was 
so  deaf  that  he  applied  himself  to  his  tasks 
with  abstracted  concentration,  and  could  not 
easily  be  interrupted.  Evidently  the  news 
had  not  penetrated  to  him.  A  murmur  of 
voices  was  passing  to  and  fro  in  a  knot  of 
men  gathered  at  a  short  distance.  Pierce 
might  have  caught  a  sentence  now  and 
then. 

"You'd  a  right  to  ha'  sent  them  word  to 
keep  out  of  it — you  had  so — the  way  she  'd 
niver  ha'  come  widin  raich  of  harm." 

"Sure,  we  was  intendin'  to  get  it  done  that 
arly   there 'd   ha'   been   no   fear   of  e'er  a  sow! 


THE    KEYS    OF    THE    CHEST      93 

about ;  'twas  the  fau't  of  the  divil  of  an  ould 
fog  delayin'  us." 

"Ah,  now,  but  it's  the  woful  thing,  however 
it  come  to  happen.  And  she  the  on'y  one 
her  poor  mother  has.  Is  anybody  runnin' 
down  to  tell  them  ?  " 

"  Och  you  may  depind — half-a-dozen." 

"Well,  it's  a  quare  ugly  world  she's  took 
out  of  any  way,  the  crathur,  God  knows.  'Deed 
now,  I  do  be  wonderin'  somewhiles  what  He's 
at  wid  bringin'  the  likes  of  her  into  such  a 
place  at  all." 

"And  small  blame  to  you  to  be  wonderin' 
that  same,  Jim,  if  it's  for  nothin'  betther  than 
to  take  and  knock  the  bit  of  life  out  of  her, 
as  if  it  was  a  gossoon  slingin'  stones  at  a  little 
wran  hoppin'  along  in  the  hedges." 

"That's  no  sort  of  talk.  God  be  good  to 
the  crathur,  she  looks  as  if  no  great  harm  was 
after  happenin'  her  any  way." 

"  It 's  not  kilt  at  all  she  is,  I  'm  thinkin'. 
The  Docther  's  apt  to  say  she  '11  be  finely  agin 
prisently." 

"  Bedad  now,  you  might  ha'  more  wit,  man — 
Och,  it's  on'y  poor  Crazy  Christy." 

The  sound,  but  not  the  sense,  of  this  dis- 
cussion  reached   Pierce,   and   vaguely   irritated 


94      A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

him,  because  he  thought  it  might  prevent  him 
from  hearing  the  approach  of  what  he  forced 
himself  to  imagine  possible  assistance.  But 
when  Father  O'Connor,  not  long  afterwards, 
did  come  up  to  him,  it  was  with  no  more 
practical  suggestion  than :  "  God  help  you." 

"God?"  said  Pierce.  "What  on  earth  can 
God  do?  I  think  it  has  killed  her."  He  put 
his  question  like  one  assuming  some  self- 
evident  proposition,  and  the  kindly  old  man 
turned  away  from  him  with  a  shake  of  the 
head,  and  no  attempt  to  gainsay. 

The  next  voice  to  arouse  Pierce's  attention 
was  that  of  a  youngish  woman,  worn  and 
weather-beaten,  whose  g^Qy  ragged  shawl 
hooded  black  wings  of  hair,  and  the  dark 
eyes  that  often  look  out  so  full  of  cares  from 
such  surroundings.  He  recognised  her  as 
Norah  O'Neil,  by  birth  Kinsella,  and  she  was 
saying:  "So  I  thought  maybe  the  Docther 
might  be  up  here,  Mr  Pierce — but  sure  it's  all 
one.  There's  nobody  can  do  a  hand's  turn 
for  him  or  any  of  us  now,  on'y  God.  For 
himself 's  lyin'  dead  too,  sir,  be  the  roadside 
down  beyant  the  bridge.  And,  truth  to  tell 
you,  it 's  quare  set  agin  stirrin'  out  he  was  this 
mornin',  wishful  he  was  to  be  lyin'  in  his  bed, 


THE    KEYS    OF   THE    CHEST      95 

for  he  said  he  felt  cruel  wakely  in  himself 
altogether.  But  it's  losin'  the  day's  wages  I 
was  thinkin'  of,  and  settlin'  to  call  him  all 
the  lazy  hounds  I  could  lay  me  tongue  to 
— poor  Mick,  that  was  good  to  us  ever — for 
'fraid  we  'd  be  starvin'  to-morra.  So  he  went 
off  wid  himself  And  the  God  that 's  above  me 
knoWs  well,  on'y  for  the  childer  I  wouldn't  ha' 
said  a  word.  But,  Mr  Pierce,  the  faces  of  thim 
is  gone  to  nothin' ;  there  isn't  a  one  of  thim 
the  width  of  the  palm  of  your  hand.  And  on'y 
for  the  childer,  to  be  lavin'  thim,  God  knows 
I  'd  liefer  be  lyin'  the  way  Miss  Eileen  is  this 
minyit,  instead  of  her,  the  Saints  in  Heaven 
be  good  to  her,  that's  the  young  crathur. 
Many 's  the  time  I  've  carried  her  up  half-ways 
to  this  very  place,  when  I  wasn't  so  much 
oulder  meself  For  what  else  will  I  be  doin' 
all  the  rest  of  me  life,  but  remimberin'  the  day 
I  dhruv  poor  Mick  out  of  the  warm  house  to 
get  his  death  on  the  roadside,  when  all  the 
while  I   knew   in   me   heart   he  wasn't   rightly 

able  to  stand  on  his  feet.     And  he " 

But  Norah's  story  was  here  jostled  aside  by 
Con  Furlong,  the  foreman,  a  stolid,  business- 
like person,  who  wished  to  mention  that  the 
men  were  all  quitting  their  work,  and  to  receive 


96      A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

instructions  about  paying  for  a  couple  of  loads 
of  stones  that  were  just  after  coming  over  from 
Smith's  place  beyond  Clonmoragh,  where  he 
had  never  ordered  them.  These  details  some- 
how helped  Pierce  to  realise  more  fully  that  he 
was  to  be  still  alive.  Meanwhile  the  sun  had 
found  a  clear  path  earthward  among  the  mists, 
and  shone  out  through  them  with  all  the 
glamour  of  dawn  and  splendour  of  high-noon, 
so  that  swift  lights  strode  hither  and  thither 
upon  the  hills,  and  the  haze  melted  into  the 
deepening  blue  as  fast  as  foam  on  a  summer 
sea,  until  the  spring-day  was  golden  over  the 
whole  countryside.  It  was  just  the  world  and 
the  weather  for  those  grand  times  which,  as 
Pierce  now  suddenly  remembered,  he  had 
promised  that  Eileen  should  have  when  he 
came  with  the  key. 


A    DESERTED    CHILD 


A   DESERTED    CHILD 

THE  Round  Lodge  at  Kilrath  is  so  ornate 
a  little  structure,  with  its  pillared  portico 
and  fantastic  pagoda-like  roof,  that  it  looks 
as  incongruous  in  the  lonesome  grass-lands, 
amongst  which  it  is  solitarily  set,  as  a  single 
pelargonium  or  calceolaria  would  look  among 
their  ragweed  and  thistles.  Only  the  old 
people  recollect  how  it  was  built  by  way  of 
being  a  gate-lodge  on  one  of  the  new  roads 
which  there  was  talk  of  young  Mr  Hall 
making  at  the  time  he  came  into  the  pro- 
perty, but  which,  like  many  more  of  his 
schemes,  were  never  carried  out.  None  of 
them,  in  fact,  ever  took  a  substantial  form 
except  the  Round  Lodge,  his  promptness  in 
this  matter  being  caused  by  a  long-standing 
promise  to  his  old  nurse  that  if  he  succeeded 
to  the  Kilrath  estate  she  should  have  "a  little 
house  of  her  own."  As  his  regard  for  the  old 
woman  was  one  of  the  few  interests  he  had  left  » 
unshrivelled  by  the  gambling  fever  that  had 
fastened  on  him,  he  found  an  eager  pleasure 
in  keeping  his  word  to  her,  and  travelled  all 
99 


loo     A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

the  way  down  from  Dublin  that  he  might  be 
present  at  her  induction  into  her  new  abode. 

It  was  a  moteless  morning  in  early  summer, 
when  the  curved  masses  of  the  wood  still 
had  a  misty  softness  of  hue,  and  the  green 
of  the  fresh  lawns  looked  as  unwitherable  as 
the  domed  blue  above  them.  The  Round 
Lodge  gleamed  most  spick  and  span  within 
and  without,  its  brilliant  tiles  glowing,  and  the 
violet  and  amber  panes  in  its  glass  door 
richly  staining  the  sunbeams  that  crowded  into 
the  little  porch.  Mrs  Moran,  glancing  round 
the  cosy  sitting-room  with  bright  quick  eyes 
like  a  bird's,  felt  herself  happy  indeed,  though 
she  only  said  she  dared  say  she  might  make 
a  shift  to  manage  well  enough,  once  she  had 
the  things  set  to  rights  a  bit  herself  in  her 
own  way ;  which  would  have  sounded  faint 
praise  to  anybody  who  did  not  know  her. 
But  when  she  was  left  there  to  her  own 
devices,  she  became  subject  to  fits  of  forlorn 
"  lonesomeness,"  at  intervals  which  grew  shorter 
day  by  day  as  the  first  gloss  of  ownership 
wore  off.  It  did  so  the  more  rapidly  because 
the  Round  Lodge  was  so  far  out  of  the  way 
that  she  seldom  had  a  visitor  to  whom  she 
could  exhibit  her  possessions  with  proud  dis- 


A    DESERTED    CHILD  loi 

paragement.  We  all  like  to  look  at  our  own 
happiness  through  other  men's  eyes,  a  process 
by  which  it  seems  to  gain  a  sort  of  stereo- 
scopic solidity.  Her  nearest  acquaintances 
were  the  old  coachman  and  cook  couple  who 
lived  as  caretakers  in  the  gaunt,  empty 
mansion  two  miles  away ;  for  though  the 
village  is  considerably  closer  by,  a  bit  down 
the  road  after  you  turn  out  of  the  boreen, 
anybody  who  supposes  that  Mrs  Moran  could 
have  associated  on  terms  of  intimacy  with 
its  inhabitants  must  be  sadly  to  seek  in 
a  knowledge  of  our  finely  shaded  social  dis- 
tinctions. Mrs  Dowling  alone,  who  was 
mistress  of  the  post-office  and  shop,  and 
who  wore  a  bonnet  at  Mass,  might  have  been 
an  appropriate  crony,  but  she  was  at  this 
time  "  mortal  bad  wid  the  janders."  Hence 
the  clear  summer  noons  and  nights  often 
strung  themselves  into  a  whole  week  without 
giving  Mrs  Moran  an  opportunity  of  saying 
anything  more  to  the  purpose  than  the 
occasional  "  Fine  day,  ma'am,"  which  even 
neighbours  who  are  not  acquaintances  must 
exchange  when  they  meet.  This  was  a  dull 
state  of  things,  and  made  the  hours  wagged 
out    by  the   bland-faced    clock    lag   and   loiter 


I02     A    CREEL    OF   IRISH    STORIES 

strangely.  Sometimes,  if  she  had  not  recol- 
lected that  she  was  at  last  in  the  long-desired 
little  house  of  her  own,  she  would  have 
almost  thought  she  had  been  in  better 
places  ;  and  satisfaction  that  has  to  be  conjured 
up  by  an  effort  of  memory  comes  cold  and  flat. 

A  few  perches  to  the  westward  of  the 
Round  Lodge  a  belt  of  timber  breaks  the 
smooth  sweep  of  the  broad  pastures  that 
encircle  it.  If  you  thread  the  narrow  foot- 
path between  the  delicate  grey  beech-trunks 
for  quite  a  long  distance,  you  come  to  the 
edge  of  a  high  bank,  which  overhangs  a  deep- 
sunken  lane,  a  mere  boreen  joining  two  more 
important  thoroughfares.  Thence  the  trees  turn 
at  right  angles  to  fringe  the  brink  of  this  lane. 
Across  it  you  look  into  a  wild  country.  The 
great  Shangowragh  bog  rolls  from  the  horizon 
almost  to  your  feet,  and  on  the  right  hand, 
towards  Lisconnel,  spreads  far  away,  a  spacious 
level  that  seems  brown  until  you  have  called 
it  so,  and  then  you  see  many  other  colours 
struggling  duskily  through,  olive  and  purple 
and  red.  To  the  left  there  is  rougher  ground, 
mottled  with  grey-gleaming  boulders  and 
clumps  of  furze,  and  lifting  itself  up  lazily 
to  a  stony  ridge.      Beyond  that  rise  darkly  a 


A    DESERTED    CHILD  103 

pair  of  domed  mountain  summits,  the  same 
that  are  seen  more  dimly  from  Lisconnel. 
Here  they  have  the  aspect  of  two  huge  hooded 
heads,  bowed  over  a  mysteriously  folded 
hollow.  When  Mrs  Moran  came  within  view 
of  this  landscape,  she  generally  shrank  back 
among  the  sheltering  trunks,  and  went  home 
the  way  she  had  come.  She  said  it  made 
the  flesh  creep  upon  her  bones,  and  she 
wouldn't  stop  where  she'd  have  one  of  those 
ugly  black-lookin'  blocks  of  hills  grimacin'  at 
her  from  mornin'  till  night,  not  if  she  was 
paid  for  it  by  the  hour.  The  fact  was  that 
she  had  lived  all  her  life  in  the  corner  of  a 
softly  contoured  up-and-down  county,  where 
the  little  rounded  grass  hillocks  and  frequent 
hedges  make  the  countryside  look  as  if  it  had 
been  crumpled  into  green  bunches,  and  where 
the  prospect  seldom  extends  over  more  than 
a  few  hawthorn-bounded  fields  at  a  time.  So 
that  these  vast  stretches  of  wilderness  were 
for  her  a  new  and  startling  revelation  of 
possibilities  in  Nature,  which  she  was  somewhat 
disposed  to  resent.  On  the  whole,  though  she 
would  by  no  means  have  allowed  it,  even  to 
herself,  the  little  house  of  her  own  was  more  or 
less  a  disappointment,  and  disappointments  that 


I04    A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

occur  when  one  is  verging   on  threescore-and- 
ten  have  a  discouraging  air  of  finality. 

But  with  that  first  long  summer  at  the  Round 
Lodge,  Mrs  Moran's  solitude  was  ended  by 
the  arrival  there  of  her  daughter-in-law,  Mrs 
Peter,  and  of  her  three  grandchildren,  Nannie 
and  Biddy  and  Con.  Their  coming  was  caused 
by  a  very  tragical  occurrence,  and  apart  from 
the  melancholy  circumstances,  I  doubt  that 
it  added  to  the  old  woman's  contentment. 
She  had  long  since  made  up  her  mind  that 
she  would  not  like  a  bone  in  her  son's  wife's 
skin,  and  the  prejudice  did  not  melt  away 
upon  acquaintance,  while  the  children  were 
rather  oppressive  to  her  after  her  long  holiday 
from  such  society.  Since  the  infancy  of  Mr 
George,  now  in  the  Lancers,  she  had  scarcely 
seen  a  child  to  speak  to,  in  the  grown-up  Halls' 
deserted  nursery ;  and  she  said  aggrieved  ly 
that  they  moidhered  her,  and  that  ne'er  a  one 
of  them  featured  their  poor  father.  Nannie 
and  Biddy,  good  -  natured,  hot-tempered  little 
girls,  shocked  her  by  their  romps  and  quarrels ; 
and  four-year-old  Con,  a  small,  melancholy 
child  with  a  turn  for  metaphysics,  caused  her 
some  chagrin  by  his  unthriving  aspect ;  she 
said  that   he   looked   like   a    hap'orth   of  soap 


A    DESERTED    CHILD  105 

after  a  week's  washin',  wid  the  face  on  him 
no  broader  than  a  farthin'  herrin'.  With  all 
their  shortcomings,  however,  the  young  Morans 
were  presently  the  means  of  bringing  a  still 
less  promising  inmate  to  the  Round  Lodge. 

About  this  time  Kilrath  happened  to  be  suffer- 
ing from  a  visitation  of  the  Tinkers,  who  had 
established  themselves  as  usual  in  the  row  of 
deserted  cottages  at  the  end  of  the  boreen.  The 
Tinkers  were  people  who  spent  all  the  tolerably 
warm  part  of  the  year  among  the  benettled  wall- 
rims  of  deserted  cabins,  and  under  the  arches 
of  bridges,  and  in  the  hollows  of  old  quarries, 
making  progresses  to  and  from  these  quarters 
with  the  help  of  two  donkey-carts.  Most  of  the 
party  passed  the  heart  of  the  winter  in  the  less 
primitive  shelter  of  whatever  Union  workhouse 
was  nearest  when  the  first  unbearably  cold  night 
overtook  them.  Now  and  then  a  member  of 
their  confraternity  disappeared  for  a  space  into 
the  more  rigorous  seclusion  of  some  county  jail, 
but  that  was  an  accident  of  occurrence  less  com- 
mon than  their  temporary  neighbours  could 
have  wished.  For  the  Tinkers,  it  is  said,  stole 
all  before  them.  Middle-aged  inhabitants  of 
Kilrath  remembered  when  the  band  had  filled 
only  one  cart ;  but  of  late  years  they  had  over- 


io6    A    CREEL    OF   IRISH    STORIES 

flowed  into  a  second,  the  owners  of  which  were 
known  as  the  Young  Tinkers.  It  was  con- 
sidered that  the  Young  Tinkers  were  collec- 
tively greater  thieves  of  the  world  than  the 
Ould,  but  that  no  single  individual  could  hold 
a  candle  for  villainy  to  Luke  Maguire,  the 
very  ancient  commander  of  the  original  vehicle. 
People  wondered  sometimes  that  the  Young 
and  Ould  Tinkers  did  not  part  company,  and 
take  different  routes,  as  their  joint  arrival  at  any 
camping-ground  was  generally  the  signal  for  a 
frantic  fight  between  the  two  sections.  How- 
ever, they  continued  to  stick  together,  which, 
as  a  Kilrath  housewife  remarked,  was  "  a  rael 
charity,  for  if  they  took  to  scatterin'  themselves 
over  the  whole  countryside,  like  a  flock  of 
turkeys  in  a  stubble-field,  she  should  suppose 
there  wouldn't  be  a  hin  or  an  egg  to  be  had 
in  it  from  one  year's  end  to  the  other." 

So  not  long  after  the  Peter  Morans'  estab- 
lishment at  the  Round  Lodge,  the  Tinkers 
sent  to  the  door  a  deputation  composed  of  a 
woman  and  two  children,  all  wildly  ragged, 
and  hung  about  with  samples  of  their  flashing 
tinware  in  such  profuse  festoons  that  their 
approach  sounded,  one  may  suppose,  some- 
what  like   the   onset   of  a  mail-clad  knight  of 


A    DESERTED    CHILD  107 

old  romance.  Their  call  was  but  brief,  for 
their  appearance  did  not  favourably  impress 
the  two  Mrs  Morans,  who  were  afterwards 
careful  to  exhort  Nannie  and  Biddy  and  Con 
that  they  must  on  no  account  have  anything 
to  say  to  "them  young  rapscallions,"  if  met 
with  on  their  walks  abroad.  The  little 
Morans,  who  had  been  staring  with  all  their 
eyes  full  of  envious  admiration  at  their  two 
contemporaries  permitted  freely  to  handle  and 
clink  those  resplendent  and  resonant  cans,  felt 
vaguely  the  existence  of  compensations  and 
complications  in  the  scheme  of  things,  when 
they  learned  that  these  privileged  persons 
were  nevertheless  to  be  shunned  as  somehow 
inferior  and  reprehensible,  and  "not  anyways 
fit  company  for  respectable  people's  childer." 

But  on  the  next  Saturday  their  mother  went 
to  shop  in  the  village,  and  up  at  the  Round 
Lodge  the  children  found  the  morning  as  long 
as  mornings  can  be  when  one  is  under  seven, 
and  the  end  of  an  hour  is  out  of  sight.  By 
the  time  that  Nannie  and  Biddy  and  Con  had 
finished  their  midday  dinner,  they  felt  quite 
convinced  that  if  their  mother  meant  ever  to 
come  back  to  them  at  all,  she  must  now  be 
somewhere  near  at  hand  ;  and  while  their  grand- 


io8    A    CREEL    OF   IRISH    STORIES 

mother  was  busy  washing  up,  they  slipped 
away  to  meet  her  along  the  path  among  the 
beeches.  It  was  a  pleasant  autumn  day,  with 
crisp  leaf-drifts  to  scuffle  underfoot,  and  here 
and  there  a  more  or  less  ripe  blackberry  attain- 
able, amusements  which  drew  them  on  until 
they  reached  the  brink  of  the  abrupt  descent 
into  the  boreen.  They  saw  no  sign  of  their 
mother  coming,  and  the  bank  looked  so  very 
high  and  steep  that  they  could  not  even  think 
of  climbing  it  But  while  they  strayed  desul- 
torily on  the  top,  somebody,  swinging  from 
clumps  of  weeds  to  handles  of  looped  roots  in 
monkey-like  fashion,  came  suddenly  scrambling 
up  it,  and  then  squatted  down  cross-legged  under 
a  sloe-bush.  The  new-comer  seemed  to  the 
children  a  very  large  person,  being  a  well- 
grown  girl  of  ten  or  eleven.  Her  dress  con- 
sisted of  a  brown  skirt,  which  looked  as  if  it 
had  once  been  a  sack,  with  a  man's  old  jacket 
for  a  bodice,  eked  out  by  a  screed  of  greenish 
shawl.  She  was  barefooted  and  bareheaded, 
with  a  great  shock  of  black  hair  making  thick 
eaves  over  her  brows,  under  which  her  light- 
grey  eyes  shone  like  the  gleam  of  pools  caught 
through  dark-fledged  boughs.  This  was  Judy 
Flower,  eldest  daughter  of  Jack   Flower,  head 


A    DESERTED    CHILD  109 

of  the  family  of  the  Young  Tinkers.  Strictly- 
speaking,  Jack's  surname  was  Murphy,  but 
Jack's  father,  who  had  enjoyed  some  local 
renown  as  a  wrestler,  had  been  styled  by  his 
admiring  neighbours  "  The  Flower  of  Clon- 
moyle,"  and  his  children  had  been  spoken  of 
as  the  Young  Flowers,  until  the  nickname 
hardened  into  a  patronymic,  which  Jack  took 
with  him  when  he  sank  into  the  tinkering  line. 
Judy's  mother,  on  the  other  hand,  had  real 
gipsies  among  her  ancestry,  which  was,  perhaps, 
the  reason  why  Judy  sat  cross-legged,  and  had 
something  weirdly  Oriental  in  her  aspect 

The  Moran  children  sidled  away  a  few  paces, 
eyeing  her  doubtfully ;  but  she  took  no  notice 
of  them,  and  began  to  eat  a  bunch  of  remark- 
ably large  and  ripe  blackberries,  evidently  the 
remains  of  much  similar  spoil,  for  her  hands 
and  lips  were  blue  with  juice-stains.  When 
she  had  finished  them  all  but  the  last,  which 
was  also  the  biggest  and  blackest,  she  suddenly 
held  it  out  to  Con,  saying,  "  There 's  for  you, 
young  feller,  and  a  grand  one  it  is — a  dew- 
berry. Stuff  it  in  your  mouth,  and  no  more 
talk  out  of  you."  She  spoke  in  a  high-pitched 
gabble,  and  with  a  peremptoriness  of  manner 
modelled    upon    that    used    by  her    elders   to 


no    A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

herself.  Con  was  half  scared,  and  Biddy 
plucked  Nannie  by  the  sleeve,  whispering 
dismally,  "Let's  go  home,  she's  ugly-lookin'." 
However,  the  plump  -  seeded,  glossy  berry 
proved  irresistible,  and  Con's  hesitation  ended 
in  a  furtive  grab.  Nannie,  emboldened  by 
this  mark  of  confidence,  came  a  step  nearer 
to  Judy,  and  said,  peering  down  the  bank 
wistfully,  for  her  gleanings  by  the  way  had 
only  served  to  whet  her  appetite,  "  There 
would  be  a  dale  of  berries  in  it  over  yonder  ? " 
Judy  craned  her  neck  round  the  bush,  and 
looked  down  the  bank  too,  and  then  at  the 
the  three  small  children,  who  stood  in  a  row. 
"  Is  it  berries  you  're  after  ? "  she  said,  "  and 
is  it  over  there  you'd  be  goin'?  Whethen 
now,  if  you  knew  what  all  was  in  it  over  there, 
'tisn't  about  berries  you'd  be  talkin.  Och  no, 
murdher  alive,  not  indeed,  bedad." 

"Over  where  is  it?"  said  Nannie,  im- 
pressed and  alarmed  by  the  redundancy  of 
Judy's  asseverations. 

Judy  pointed  up  the  boreen,  which  just 
there  turned  sharply,  and  under  a  roof  of 
reddening  boughs  formed  a  vista,  ended  by 
the  dark  mountain-wall.  "Och  if  you  was 
after  seein'  the  laste  taste  of  a  sight  of  a  one  of 


A    DESERTED    CHILD  iii 

them"  —  she  said,  with  appalling  vagueness. 
"Och  mercy  on  us  all  and  more  too,  if  you 
on'y  was." 

"  What  sort  seein'  ? "  said  Nannie,  with  in- 
creasing anxiety.  The  row  had  shortened 
itself  considerably,  the  children  had  shrunk  so 
close  together. 

"Crathurs,"  said  Judy.  "Och  my  goodness 
the  crathurs.  Tiger-bastes,  and  camel-horses, 
and  mambolethses — rael  frykful.  I  cudn't  tell 
you  the  half-quarter  of  them.  But  the  crathur 
of  all  the  crathurs  is  the  big  red  snake  that's 
in  it.  Awful  he  is.  Och  the  dear  help  us,  I 
hope  he  '11  bide  contint  where  he  is,  I  hope  he 
will.  Wirrasthrew,  if  he  was  to  get  hearin'  any 
sort  of  noise  that  'ud  wake  of  him  out  of  his  sleep 
— whoo-oo,  that'd  be  the  bad  job  for  us  all." 

The  children  stared  at  her  round-eyed  like 
a  bunch  of  fascinated  little  birds. 

"  Well  now,  but  it 's  the  terrible  big  red  snake 
he  is,"  Judy  went  on  contemplatively,  "and 
the  great  hijjis  lump  of  a  black  head  he  has 
on  him ;  it  wouldn't  scarce  fit  in  between  them 
two  bushes  ;  and  the  long  len'th  he  is,  that'd 
raich  aisy  to  the  far  end  of  the  boreen — and 
he  asleep  up  yonder,  ready  to  wake  every 
instant    minute    of    time    that    happens — and 


112     A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

bould  little  children  talkin'  of  leppin'  down  the 
high  banks  after  blackberries." 

"We  worn't,"  said  Biddy,  with  a  howl. 

"Where  is  he  asleep  at  all?"  said  Nannie 
in  a  hoarse  whisper. 

"  Sure,  up  there  in  his  black  hole,"  said  Judy, 
pointing  through  the  trees,  "wound  himself  up 
he  has — round  and  round  and  round-an'-round- 
an'-round  " — she  described  a  rapid  eddy  in  the 
air  with  her  forefinger — "wid  his  big  ugly 
head  cocked  in  the  middle,  listenin'  till  he  hears 
somethin'  to  wake  him  up — and  then,  good 
gracious,  is  it  what '11  he  do?"  she  said,  reply- 
ing to  an  interrogative  gasp  from  Nannie, 
"Murdher  alive!"  She  ducked  down  until 
her  shock-head  nearly  touched  the  ground,  and 
recoiled  immediately  to  an  erect  sitting  posture 
with  a  jack-in-the-box-like  spring.  Then  she 
elongated  her  neck  preternaturally,  and  twist- 
ing it  from  side  to  side,  glared  about  her  with 
a  ferocious  goggle  and  grin.  "  That 's  what 
he  '11  do  first,"  she  said,  "  to  find  out  what  way 
the  noise  was  comin'  wakenin'  of  him.  And 
after  that,  he  lets  a  couple  of  roars  out  of  him, 
and  he  begins  to  unrowl  himself — round  and 
round  an'  round-an'-round — the  wrong  way. 
And  as  soon  as  he's  stretched  his  len'th,  out 


A    DESERTED    CHILD  ii3 

he'll  take  wid  himself  sHtherin'  down  the  hill 
to  us,  and  through  the  trees  there  he'll  come 
smashin'  desthruction  off  of  all  before  him. 
Ragin'  mad  he'll  be  for  bein'  woke  up.  Och 
the  creels  of  him  and  the  crawls  of  him,"  said 
Miss  Judy,  rocking  herself  to  and  fro,  so  that  the 
withered  leaves  on  the  thorny  bush  behind  her 
fell  over  her  like  a  shower  of  little  golden  coins, 
"och  the  creels  of  him  and  the  crawls  of  him, 
and  the  roars  of  him  and  the  bawls  of  him 
—there  was  never  anything  aquil  to  it.  'Twould 
terrify  the  clouds  out  of  the  sky.  .  .  .  And  mercy 
be  among  us,  what  was  that  at  all  now  ?  Was 
it  him  beginnin'?  I  dunno  but  I  heard  him 
over  yonder,  like  as  if  he  was  sayin'  cniel  to 
himsel,  *  Whoo-oo-o,  let  me  be  comin'  at  them.'  '* 
This  was  too  much  for  the  fortitude  of 
Biddy,  a  small  fat  child  with  no  great  force 
of  character,  and  she  broke  into  an  uncontroll- 
able roar,  to  the  wrathful  despair  of  Nannie, 
who  shook  her  passionately,  saying,  "Whisht, 
whisht,  you  little  madwoman  I  do  you  want  to 
have  us  all  destroyed  ? "  Con,  on  the  other 
hand,  not  less  dismayed,  flew  frantically  at 
Judy  with  a  snatched-up  stick,  confusing  the 
causer  with  the  object  of  his  terror.  Judy 
herself  rose  to  her  feet,  and   resorted   to  pre- 

H 


114    A  CREEL  OF   IRISH   STORIES 

cipitate  flight,  not  by  reason  of  Con's  assault, 
but  because  at  this  moment  a  voice  called 
shrilly  through  the  trees,  "You  young  mis- 
creant there,  what  at  all  are  you  doin'  wid 
the  childer?"  It  was  old  Mrs  Moran,  who, 
alarmed  by  the  stillness,  had  set  out  in  quest 
of  her  grandchildren.  Judy,  who  had  no 
wish  to  explain  the  situation,  sought  to  escape 
from  it  by  a  hasty  retreat  down  the  boreen 
bank,  but  her  attempt  was  unlucky.  For  in 
her  hurried  swinging  of  herself  over  the  edge, 
she  trusted  her  weight  to  a  tuft  of  ragweed, 
whose  roots  ripped  faithlessly  out  of  the 
crumbling  soil,  and  let  her  drop  amongst  a 
scattering  of  earth  and  pebbles  into  the  middle 
of  the  lane,  where  she  lay  stunned  and  incap- 
able for  the  present  of  any  further  romancing. 
It  was  in  this  way  that  Judy  Flower  became 
an  inmate  of  the  Round  Lodge,  being  carried 
up  their  by  Michael  Kelly,  a  turf-cutter,  who 
appeared  opportunely  on  the  scene.  He  then 
tramped  off  several  miles  to  summon  the 
doctor,  observing  as  he  started  that  there  was 
likely  to  be  an  Inquist  to-morrow.  But  when 
the  doctor  came,  he  pronounced  the  case  one 
of  merely  slight  concussion  of  the  brain,  and 
predicted  a  rapid   recovery,  if  the   child   were 


A    DESERTED    CHILD  115 

properly  cared  for,  which  Mrs  Moran  resolved 
that  she  should  be.  "The  crathur  might  stop 
where  she  was  for  a  few  days  at  any  rate,  till 
she  came  round  a  bit." 

The  Tinkers  themselves  did  not  display  much 
concern  about  the  fate  of  their  youthful  com- 
rade. On  the  evening  of  the  accident,  two  of 
the  women  came  to  make  inquiries  at  the 
Round  Lodge,  and  their  report  seemingly 
satisfied  Judy's  family,  for  next  morning  the 
whole  party  decamped,  moving  on  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Castlebawn.  But  it  had  happened  that 
just  at  this  time  Judy's  mother  was  absent, 
tramping  the  country  on  a  professional  tour, 
with  a  baby  and  a  bunch  of  tinware,  and  so 
heard  nothing  of  what  had  befallen  her  daughter 
until  she  rejoined  the  caravan  at  Castlebawn. 
They  picked  her  up  in  a  dreary  little  back 
lane,  where  she  awaited  their  coming,  seated 
on  a  broken-down  mud  wall.  Her  tin  cans 
were  nearly  all  slung  about  her  still,  but  she 
had  nothing  in  her  arms,  for  the  baby  had 
died  of  bronchitis  in  the  cold  weather  the 
week  before,  little  to  anybody  else's  regret, 
perhaps  not  even  its  own.  But  the  event 
had  disposed  Mrs  Flower  to  take  a  tragical 
view  of  things,  and  therefore,  when  her  family 


ii6    A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

equipage  creaked  near  enough  to  admit  a 
counting  of  black  and  red  heads,  which  showed 
that  one  was  missing,  she  immediately  formed 
the  gloomiest  conclusions  about  the  fate  of 
the  absentee.  Nor  were  the  explanations  she 
received  particularly  re-assuring.  Little  Jimmy, 
her  eldest  boy,  reported  that  Judy  had  fell 
off  of  the  top  of  somethin',  he  didn't  rightly 
know  what,  and  hadn't  come  home  since. 
And  his  aunt  Mrs  Massey's  account  of  the 
matter  ran :  "  Och,  sure  she 's  after  givin' 
herself  a  crack  on  the  head,  but  the  ould 
woman  that  picked  her  up  off  the  road  was 
a  dacint  body,  and  she's  took  her  in.  She 
might  get  over  it  and  do  right  enough  yet 
Anyway,  the  best  chance  was  to  lave  her 
where  she  is.  It's  late  we  are,  for  the  roads 
is  that  heavy  they're  nearly  pullin'  the  hoofs 
off  of  the  misfort'nit  asses'  ould  feet.  How  did 
she  get  the  crack?  Sure  the  on'y  wonder  is  she 
hasn't  broke  her  neck  a  dozen  of  times  wid 
the  way  she  climbs  over  all  before  her.  And 
so  the  baby's  died  on  you?  Ah  the  crathur, 
God  be  good  to  it!  'Deed  now,  it  would  be 
cruel  knocked  about  in  the  perishin'  weather. 
Belike  it's  better  off.  Did  you  sell  anythin' 
at  all?     Musha  then,  woman,  you  needn't  be 


A    DESERTED    CHILD  117 

frettin'  after  Judy,  for  she 's  apt  to  play  plinty 
more  fool's  thricks  yit,  if  that's  all  ails  you." 

Mrs  Flower  was,  however,  bent  on  not  only 
fretting,  but  going  to  see  after  and  if  possible 
repossess  herself  of  Judy.  She  was  ill  and 
miserable,  and  had  been  looking  forward  to 
the  close  of  her  weariful,  lonesome  tramp,  and 
a  spell  of  easier  days,  jogging  along  on  wheels 
among  familiar  faces.  But  Judy  was  the 
eldest  of  her  children,  and  had  perhaps  never 
quite  lost  the  glamour  of  a  wonderful  new 
possession,  which  her  mother  could  not  con- 
template in  another  person's  keeping  without 
a  pang  of  jealousy.  At  any  rate,  she  made 
up  her  mind  to  resume  her  solitary  way,  and 
she  kept  her  resolve  despite  the  disapproval 
of  her  family,  of  her  gaunt-looking  husband, 
who  said  she'd  a  dale  better  stop  wid  the 
childer  and  him  and  mind  them  a  bit,  and 
of  the  childer  themselves,  who,  feeling  mocked 
and  defrauded  by  a  glimpse  of  comfort  so 
speedily  withdrawn,  howled  dismally  and 
drummed  protests  on  the  sides  of  their  cart, 
as  they  saw  the  much-desired  wisp  of  black 
shawl  recede  fluttering  down  the  wet  street. 

Under     these     discouraging     circumstances, 
aggravated     by     wild     wind     and     rain,     Mrs 


ii8     A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

Flower  started  on  her  doubtful  quest.  Four 
days  she  had  to  trudge  in  solitude,  and  three 
nights  she  had  to  shelter  as  best  she  could, 
the  best  being  on  two  occasions  no  better  than 
the  lee-side  of  a  dyke  and  a  clump  of  rustling 
furze-bushes.  Such  wide  tracts  of  bogland 
intervened  between  cabins  where  a  night's 
lodging  may  generally  be  had  for  the  asking, 
because  the  indwellers  have  little  else  to 
bestow.  But  she  consoled  herself  with  the 
hope  that  on  the  way  back  she  should  have 
her  daughter's  company.  She  durst  not  now 
face  the  possibility  of  "anythin'  havin'  happint 
Judy,"  so  that  she  would  after  all  return  alone. 
That  would  have  been  to  look  recklessly  down 
a  gulf  of  despair.  So  she  allowed  herself  to 
doubt  of  nothing  except  her  chances  of  reach- 
ing her  goal  before  she  was  perished  outright, 
or  "took  rael  bad  intirely."  When  she  came 
to  the  village  of  Kilrath,  a  wannish  gleam  of 
prosperity  flickered  out  on  her,  for  she  suc- 
ceeded in  persuading  Mrs  Nally,  the  owner 
of  a  stray  spare  penny,  to  buy  a  tin  mug, 
which  was  described  as  being  "that  iligant  and 
polished  up,  'twould  be  a  pleasure  to  drink 
anythin'  out  of  it,  if  'twas  on'y  a  sup  of  ditch- 
water,  and  strong?     Och  goodness  preserve  us. 


A    DESERTED    CHILD  119 

ma'am  dear,  you  might  take  and  batter  it  agin 
that  wall  there  the  len'th  of  the  day,  and  sorra 
a  dint  there  'd  be  in  it  when  you  'd  done."  As 
she  knew  that  the  Round  Lodge  could  not  be 
very  far  off,  she  expended  the  proceeds  of 
this  sale  in  purchasing  a  little  flour  cake  for 
Judy  at  the  shop.  It  was  richly  yellowed  with 
soda,  and  showed  three  currants  on  its  sur- 
face, which  could  not  fail  to  tempt  the  most 
delicate  appetite.  "  And  sure  the  bit  of  a 
crathur  would  be  finely  agin  now." 

By  the  time  that  Mrs  Flower  came  to  the 
Round  Lodge,  the  wintry  dusk  had  thickened 
so  that  the  driving  sleet-sheets  were  more  felt 
than  seen.  The  leafless  beech-grove  was  roar- 
ing in  the  wind  with  the  voice  of  a  foam-fretted 
shore,  and  straining  and  swaying  to  the  stress 
of  the  blasts  until  it  looked  like  an  anchored 
cloud.  She  groped  baffled  among  the  dripping 
trunks  for  a  long  while  before  she  found  a  clue 
in  a  line  of  red  light  to  guide  her  across  the 
dim  grass-field,  until  she  stood  under  the  porch 
of  the  Round  Lodge.  It  was  the  Tinkers' 
habit  to  be  stealthy  in  their  movements,  and 
she  passed  through  the  coloured  glass  door 
unheard,  and  down  the  short  passage  to  where 
another  door  stood  rather  widely  ajar,  revealing 


120    A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

an  interior  of  ruddily  lit  warmth,  paradisiacal 
to  anybody  peering  in  very  cold  and  wet  and 
hungry.  Only  Mrs  Moran  and  Judy  were  in 
the  kitchen,  which  glowed  all  round  its  curved 
walls  so  that  the  room  looked  like  a  cupful 
of  light  filched  from  the  ebbing  day.  Judy, 
now  convalescent,  installed  in  one  of  the  fine 
new  arm-chairs  by  the  fire,  with  locks  clipped 
and  combed,  and  wearing  a  neat  lilac  print 
frock  and  little  plaid  shoulder-shawl,  was 
wonderfully  transformed  in  aspect.  She  was 
eating  a  broad  slice  of  buttered  griddle-cake, 
and  listening  to  a  long  story,  which  Mrs 
Moran  had  drawn  from  her  store  of  reminis- 
cences about  the  Quality  she  had  lived  with. 
While  Mrs  Flower  watched,  the  old  woman 
got  up  and  brought  the  girl  something  in  a 
large  mug.  "  It 's  a  nice  sup  of  buttermilk  for 
you,"  she  said ;  "  sup  it  up,  honey,  along  wid 
your  cake.  I  declare  now,  you  and  I  are 
great  company  together  intirely.** 

"  Ay  are  we,"  said  Judy  complacently ;  "  and 
if  I  had  me  strip  of  knittin',  I  might  be  tryin' 
did  I  remember  the  stitch  you  was  showin' 
me.  Sure  none  of  them  at  home  could  do 
knittin'  no  more  than  the  crows  in  the  field. 
And  what  become  of  Miss  Lily's  grey  horse? 


A    DESERTED    CHILD  121 

They'd  be  apt  to  put  it  out  of  that,  after  it 
doin'  such  a  thing." 

Judy's  mother  never  heard  the  answer  to 
that  question,  for  she  was  pre-occupied  by  a 
struggle  towards  a  difficult  resolve.  When  it 
was  formed  at  last,  she  turned  to  slip  noise- 
lessly away.  "Sure  she  has  her  chance  there, 
me  jewel,"  she  said  to  herself.  "  I  '11  let  her  be." 
But  she  was  not  destined  to  depart  unin- 
terrupted. As  she  turned  to  go,  one  of  her  cans 
swung,  clanking  against  the  door-edge,  and 
Judy  had  espied  her  before  she  could  retreat. 

"  Why,  there 's  me  mammy ! "  Judy  said. 
**  It 's  comin'  she  '11  be  to  take  me  home."  Her 
exclamation  began  jubilantly  but  ended  in 
a  minor  cadence,  for  her  present  quarters 
were  in  most  ways  very  much  to  her  mind, 
and  being  still  less  vigorous  than  usual,  made 
her  feel  all  the  more  loth  to  resume  the  rough 
faring  upon  which  she  looked  back  across  this 
brief  novel  experience  of  cosy  chimney-corners 
and  ample  meals.  It  struck  her  that  her 
mammy  might  have  arrived  more  appropri- 
ately some  other  time ;  some  time,  of  course, 
but  other  certainly ;  and  the  opinion  betrayed 
itself  on  her  countenance. 

"Well,  and  what  way  are  you,  Judy?"  said  Mrs 


T22     A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

Flower,  pausing  as  she  found  herself  observed  ; 
"  grandly  you  look  to  be  set  up  in  there,  bedad." 

"Oh,  she's  doin'  finely?"  said  Mrs  Moran. 
"  You  'd  better  step  inside,  ma'am — if  you  're 
Judy's  mother,"  she  added,  though  she  could 
not  forbear  a  mistrustful  glance  from  her  visitor's 
bedraggled  rags  to  her  own  clean  boards  and 
good  bit  of  carpet.    "It's  wet  walkin'  to-night." 

"  I  dunno  but  I  'd  a  right  to  stop  where  I 
am,"  said  Mrs  Flower,  standing  still.  "  Drippin' 
I  am,  sure  enough ;  the  showers  this  day  'd 
drinch  a  water-eel.  I  was  on'y  trampin'  round 
wid  the  things;  and  as  for  takin'  you  along,  Judy, 
'deed  for  the  matter  of  that,  sorra  the  hurry  I'm 
in  at  all,  unless  them  that  have  got  you  so  be." 

"  There 's  no  hurry  whatsomever,"  said  Mrs 
Moran  rather  stiffly.  "Let  alone  that  the  child's 
noways  fit  to  be  streelin'  about  the  counthry." 

"  The  saints  above  know  I  've  no  wish  to 
be  saddlin'  meself  wid  her,"  said  Mrs  Flower 
defiantly.  "  It 's  just  a  Hvin'  torment  she  'd  be 
to  me,  and  divil  a  hap'orth  else." 

"Well,  to  be  sure,  one'd  ha'  thought  you 
might  ha'  found  somethin'  more  agreeable  to 
say  of  your  own  child,"  said  Mrs  Moran,  "  even 
supposin'  it  isn't  convenient  to  have  her  along 
wid  you  these  times." 


A    DESERTED    CHILD  123 

"Convenient,  is  it?"  said  Mrs  Flower.  "Be 
jabers,  it 's  them  that  has  the  rarin'  of  the  hkes 
of  her  knows  the  throuble  of  it.  Troth,  you 
might  be  tired  bangin'  her  about  and  givin'  her 
abuse  from  one  day's  end  to  the  other,  and  get 
no  good  of  her  at  the  heel  of  the  hunt." 

"'Deed  then,  if  you  can  conthrive  nothin' 
better  to  do  wid  her  than  that,  I  'd  a  dale 
sooner  she  sted  where  she  is,"  said  Mrs  Moran, 
with  increasing  sternness,  and  a  change  of 
mind  about  the  propriety  of  offering  Mrs 
Flower  a  cup  of  tea.  "  She 's  an  unnatural 
crathur,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  and  all  she  cares 
for  is  to  be  shut  of  the  child." 

"Well,  good-bye  to  you,  Judy,"  said  her 
mother.  "  I  '11  not  come  near  you,  I  'm  that 
muddy  and  wet." 

"  But  you  '11  be  comin'  back  some  time  soon, 
mammy?"  said  Judy,  who  had  hitherto  kept 
silence,  somewhat  shocked  and  affronted  at  her 
mother's  disparagement,  which  was  a  new 
experience  to  her,  as  at  home  Mrs  Flower  had 
been  always  wont  to  defend  Judy's  character 
and  extol  her,  without  much  cause,  "for 
lendin'  a  great  hand  wid  the  childer,"  and 
other  domestic  virtues.  Now,  however,  Judy 
was    stricken   with    remorse    as    she    saw   the 


124    A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

familiar  black  shawl  and  weather-worn  face 
disappearing  into  a  darkness  which  led 
towards  the  dreary  noises  of  the  wild  night. 
She  got  out  of  her  arm-chair,  and  despite  Mrs 
Moran's  remonstrance,  ran  across  the  room 
and  down  the  passage,  hobblingly,  because 
she  was  still  lame  from  her  fall.  When  she 
reached  the  porch,  her  mother,  though  close 
by,  was  almost  swallowed  up  in  the  gloom, 
which  had  superseded  the  last  glimmers  of 
twilight  Only  in  the  farthest  west  lingered 
a  dull  red  band,  hardly  more  luminous  than 
a  drift  of  the  dead  beech-leaves.  Judy  stood 
on  the  steps  peering  out,  with  the  hearth-glow 
behind  her.  "Stop  a  minute,  mammy,"  she 
called ;  "  I  'm  after  forgettin'  to  bid  you  good- 
bye  or  anythin'.     And    I  '11   ax   herself  inside 

to  be  wettin'  the  tay " 

Mrs  Flower  looked  round,  and  halted  for 
a  moment  Then  she  shook  her  fist  menac- 
ingly at  her  daughter.  "  Be  off  and  run  in 
wid  you  out  of  that,  you  young  divil!"  she 
shouted  hoarsely.  A  gust  of  wind  intercepted 
and  bore  away  the  words,  but  her  threatening 
gesture  was  plain  enough  against  the  fading 
wraith  of  the  sunset  And  it  was  the  last  that 
Judy  ever  saw  of  her  unnatural  mother. 


AN    ACCOUNT    SETTLED 


AN  ACCOUNT  SETTLED 

ONE  wet  autumn  evening,  Mr  Natty 
Grogan  was  taking  stock  and  making 
up  his  books  with  the  assistance  of  his  family. 
When  thus  occupied,  the  young  Grogans  were 
wont  to  complain  that  he  would  be  trotting 
after  them  with  dogs'  abuse  from  Billy  to 
Jock,  till  you  couldn't  tell  where  to  have 
him ;  while  he  used  to  declare  that  the  lot 
of  them  all  together  were  more  different  kinds 
of  fools  than  you  'd  find  anywhere  else  in  the 
breadth  of  Ireland,  and  so  was  their  mother 
before  them.  She  had  died  many  years  since 
and  her  husband  was  reported  to  have  re- 
marked that  the  event  would  save  him  a 
couple  of  shillings  a  week,  anyway,  for  milk 
and  chicken-broth.  But  it  is  fair  to  observe 
that  unfeeling  speeches  were  likely  enough  to 
be  put  into  his  mouth  on  this  occasion — such 
was  his  character  among  his  neighbours.  They 
said  that  his  wife  had  been  "  a  very  dacint  poor 
woman,  and  a  dale  too  good  for  any  such  an 
ould  slieveen,  and  it  was  a  pity  all  the  childer, 
except,  maybe,  Andy,  took  after  himself." 
127 


128    A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

For  the  present,  however,  popular  disapproval 
of  the  Grogans  was  in  abeyance,  as  almost 
everybody  else  had  gone  to  bed  and  to  sleep, 
so  that  Athcrum's  one  wide  street  lay  deserted 
and  blank.  It  was  a  very  wet  evening,  and 
the  whitewashed  house-fronts  had  an  ample 
dado  of  mud  splashes  about  their  doors  and 
lower  windows,  but  they  were  all  now  muffled 
up  in  darkness.  The  Grogans'  late  sitting 
threw  no  light  on  the  outer  gloom,  for  the 
battered  shop-shutters  were  up,  and  business 
proceeded  in  the  little  back  room,  whence  old 
Natty  lit  himself  every  now  and  then  with  a 
sweeling  dip,  to  grope  among  his  stock-in- 
trade  in  the  adjoining  shop.  He  accompanied 
these  researches  with  dissatisfied  grunts,  rising 
occasionally  into  requests  wrathfully  shouted 
to  his  family,  for  an  explanation  of  what  he 
found  or  missed.  They  grimaced  at  one  an- 
other, and  sometimes  whispered  together  before 
they  complied  with  his  demands — Nannie  and 
Tom  and  Stevie,  seated  round  the  table,  where 
the  strong  lamp-light  flared  in  their  faces. 
Their  father,  peering  in  at  them  from  murky 
recesses  behind  the  counter,  half  saw  and  half 
surmised  these  signals,  which  did  not  soothe 
his  irritation. 


AN    ACCOUNT    SETTLED        129 

"  What  at  all 's  gone  wid  the  rest  of  the 
the  ten-pound  tin  of  arrowroot  biscuits?"  he 
called  suddenly.  "It  was  better  than  three 
parts  full  last  time  I  seen  it,  and,  accordin' 
to  the  accounts,  there 's  no  right  to  be  anythin' 
out  of  it  since  then,  but  ne'er  an  atom  have 
you  left  in  it,  on'y  a  dust  of  crumbs." 

"  Belike  they  niver  put  down  the  last  person 
had  some,"  suggested  Tom,  disassociating  him- 
self from  the  transaction  with  prompt  presence 
of  mind. 

"  And  why  the  mischief  didn't  you  ?  Am  I 
keepin'  the  pack  of  yous  foolin'  here  to  be 
slingin'  me  goods  about  the  parish,  and  not  so 
much  as  take  the  trouble  to  scrawm  it  down? 
There 's  not  an  infant  child  goin'  to  school  but 
'd  make  a  better  offer  at  doin'  business." 

"  It 's  very  apt  to  ha'  been  Mrs  Moriarty," 
said  Nannie,  choosing  to  ignore  this  aspect 
of  the  matter ;  "  she  did  be  gettin'  them  kind 
of  things  the  time  the  childer  was  sick.  We 
can  aisy  charge  them  to  her." 

"Mrs  Moriarty's  great-grandmother's  cat!'* 
said  her  father.  "You  might  as  well  save 
yourself  the  trouble — and  there's  none  readier 
— of  chargin'  anythin'  to  her  these  times.  The 
people   at   the    post-office   was   tellin'   me  this 


I30    A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

mornin'  that  the  last  American  letter  come  for  her, 
sorra  the  money-order  was  in  it  at  all,  except 
word  of  the  daughter  bein'  in  hospital,  and  the 
husband  out  of  work.  It 's  one  while  before  she  '11 
be  settlin  her  account.  Howsome'er,  charge  the 
biscuits  to  her,  and  don't  be  makin'  too  free  wid 
allowin'  her  anythin'  else  on  credit.  Whose 
bill 's  that  you  're  makin'  out  there,  Stevie  ?  " 

"  Yourself 's  after  biddin'  me  get  Dan 
Farrell's,"  Stevie  replied. 

"  Ay,  did  I  ?  It 's  the  best  chance  we  have 
to  be  gettin'  anythin'  out  of  the  man,  and  he 
wid  his  couple  of  bastes  in  at  Ken  mare  fair 
yisterday.  If  we  don't  look  out  sharp,  his 
story  '11  be  that  the  agent  took  the  price  off 
him  for  rint.  The  divil  mend  the  both  of 
them  for  a  pair  of  thievin'  villins !  Sure  Widdy 
Rourke  below  was  tellin'  me  she  seen  Dan 
diffrint  times  comin'  out  of  Carmody's  as 
hearty  as  anythin' ;  and  when 's  he  had 
a  glass  from  us  at  all?  Ah,  musha!  long  life 
to  him.  A  great  notion  he  has  to  be  spendin' 
his  ready  money  at  Carmody's,  and  we  to  be 
givin'  him  credit  for  everythin'  else  he  happens 
to  fancy.  Plase  the  pigs,  I  '11  learn  him  the 
differ!  What's  the  amount  he's  owin'? 
Eighteen   shillin'?      Then   just   set   him   down 


AN    ACCOUNT    SETTLED         131 

a  couple  of  pound  of  them  biscuits,  or  any- 
thin' —  the  way  there'll  be  no  bother  wid 
change  comin'  out  of  his  note." 

"  Biscuits  he  didn't  get,  I  '11  take  me  living 
oath,"  said  Stevie  confidently. 

"  Keep  your  oaths  till .  they  're  axed  for. 
'Twas  as  apt  to  be  biscuits  as  anythin'.  And 
I  '11  tell  you  what  it  is,  me  young  shaver,  you  '11 
step  over  to  Farrell's  to-morra  mornin'  and  get 
the  bill  ped."  Old  Natty  gave  these  com- 
mands in  a  triumphant  tone,  meaning  them  to 
be  a  penalty  for  his  son's  contumacious  con- 
tradiction ;  and  Stevie  did  say  grumblingly — 

"Troth  and  bedad,  it's  nicely  bogged  a 
man  '11  be  thrampin'  them  roads  after  these 
polthogues." 

But  the  young  Grogans  had  a  way  of  pos- 
ing in  aggrieved  attitudes  from  motives  of 
policy,  and  the  commission  was  really  much 
to  Stevie's  mind,  the  office  of  collector  being 
always  in  request  among  them,  because  it  was 
endowed  with  what  they  called  their  chances. 
These  consisted  in  a  private  lengthening  of 
the  bill  by  addition  of  sundry  fictitious  items, 
the  price  of  which  the  inventor  pocketed. 
Thus,  on  the  present  occasion,  before  Stevie 
went  to  bed  he  was  careful  to  supplement  Dan 


132     A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

Farrell's  account  with  the  following  entries, 
which  were  purely  efforts  of  imagination — 

s.  d. 

Extry  male  .  .  .  .  .23 

Shuger         .  .  .  .  .10 

Other  extrys  .  .  .  ,19 

Five  shillings  was  an  unusually  large  toll  to 
levy  in  this  way,  but  Stevie  knew  his  man, 
and  had  little  fear  of  failing  to  extract  it ; 
easy-going  Dan  would  so  certainly  be  loth  to 
"get  argufyin'  and  risin'  ructions." 

Next  morning,  Stevie  started  betimes  on  his 
two-mile  walk.  The  raindrops  had  only  just 
ceased  pricking  the  wide,  continuous  puddle, 
which  lent  a  Venetian  aspect  to  the  main 
street,  and  sounds  of  gurgling  and  dripping 
were  audible  all  around,  as  if  everything  were 
talking  over  the  late  downpour.  When  Stevie 
faced  towards  the  purple  mountain  range,  in 
the  direction  of  which  lay  Dan  Farrell's,  he 
saw  the  pale  mists  creeping  along  the  ridges^ 
and  writhing  up  the  ravines,  and  swirling  in 
the  curved  hollows,  and  the  air  had  the  breath  of 
autumnal  chill  that  comes  with  rain  in  harvest 
time.  Water  gleamed  greyly  from  the  furrows 
of  every  little  field  that  he  passed,  and  he  passed 
scores    of  them    before    he    reached    the    river 


AN    ACCOUNT    SETTLED        133 

bridge,  where  he  was  within  a  few  perches  of 
his  goal.  He  might  have  taken  a  shorter 
route,  but  it  included  a  swampy  patch  and 
the  passage  of  some  stepping-stones,  for  which 
he  considered  the  state  of  affairs  "too  soft 
altogether " ;  and  he  therefore  kept  upon  com- 
paratively dry  land.  The  dryness  was  very 
comparative  indeed  all  over  Dan  Farrell's  little 
holding,  which  occupied  the  entrance  to  a 
winding  green  glen,  where  both  stream  and 
hillside  curved  suddenly,  leaving  a  triangular  bit 
of  level  ground.  During  the  past  night,  however, 
this  had  undergone  an  abrupt  change  of  contour, 
as  the  swollen  river  had  flung  an  impetuous  arm 
across  it,  islanding  its  apex  and  rejoining  the 
main  stream,  turbid  with  melted  clods  and 
tangled  with  wisps  of  drowned  green  oats. 

When  Stevie  came  to  the  bridge,  Dan 
Farrell  himself  was  standing  up  to  his  knees 
in  the  soaked  grain  by  the  water's  edge  and 
thinking  of  his  bad  luck,  without  any  pre- 
sentiment that  more  was  on  its  way.  He 
was  a  tall,  black-bearded  man,  and  had  been 
a  gaunt  and  grizzled  one  ever  since  a  virulent 
attack  of  rheumatism  last  spring  had  changed 
him  from  middle-aged  to  elderly  in  a  few 
racking     weeks.       This     illness     had     brought 


134    A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

Sarah  Tighe,  his  sister's  daughter,  from  her 
home  in  Athcrum  to  nurse  him  and  manage 
his  forlorn  household,  for  Dan  had  lately 
been  left  a  widower,  and  his  four  children 
were  incapably  small.  Sarah  was  now  calling 
to  him  from  the  door  to  the  effect  that  he 
hadn't  as  much  sense  as  little  Bobby,  or  else 
he'd  come  in  out  of  streeling  through  them 
oats,  and  they  as  wet  as  the  waves  of  the 
say,  unless  maybe  he  'd  a  mind  to  have 
himself  bawling  for  the  next  month  with 
the  pains  in  his  bones.  But  Dan  turned  a 
bothered  ear  to  her  warnings,  until  she  added — 

"  And  if  here  isn't  one  of  the  young  Grogans 
slingein'  along  over  the  bridge." 

Then  the  recollection  of  his  growing  account 
at  the  shop  started  out  from  the  misty  back- 
ground of  his  troubles,  and  took  up  a  com- 
manding position  in  the  forefront  He  cast 
a  glance  of  listless  despondency  on  the  flooded 
field  and  turbulent  river,  and  began  to  walk 
slowly  up  the  plashy  furrow  towards  his  house, 
set  in  motion  by  a  vague  sense  that  it  was 
more  fitting  for  him  than  for  his  niece  to 
receive  young  Grogan.  By  the  time  he 
reached  the  door,  Stevie  was  already  there 
talking    to    Sarah,    a    plump     young    woman, 


AN    ACCOUNT    SETTLED        135 

whose  colouring  suggested  an  autumn  hedge- 
row, with  gleams  of  ruddy  berries  and  black, 
and  warm  brown  leaves.  She  was  naturally 
conversational  and  vivacious,  but  it  may  be 
feared  that  her  consciousness  of  Brian  Mahony 
inside  there  disapproving  of  the  colloquy  led 
her  to  carry  it  on  with  increased  animation. 
Had  nobody  been  by  to  mind,  Mr  Stephen 
Grogan  might  have  received  a  welcome  more 
in  accordance  with  Sarah's  own  private  opinion 
of  him,  which  was  low.  When  her  uncle 
came  up,  she  stood  demurely  aside,  and  waited 
while  his  health  was  inquired  after  and  the 
weather  bewailed.     Then  Stevie  asked — 

"  And  what  way  was  the  fair  a'  Tuesday  ?  " 

"  As  bad  as  anythin'  at  all,"  said  Dan, 
"onless  you  was  to  be  payin'  the  dalers  to 
take  your  bastes  off  you  for  a  complimint." 

"  But  you  're  after  selling  a  couple  ? "  said 
Stevie. 

"  Och,  did  I — and  what 's  four  pound  ten  to 
git  for  a  grand  little  heifer,  and  she  a  rael 
dexter,  if  you  was  to  be  tired  swearin'  agin 
it  ?  Worth  three  times  the  money  she  'd  ha' 
been  to  me,  if  I  could  ha'  held  on  to  her  a 
sixmonth  longer." 

"  Sure,   now,   it 's   you   farmers   that   are  the 


136     A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

rich  people,  makin'  nothin'  of  pound  notes  at 
that  rate,"  said  Stevie,  laughing  with  a  sort  of 
uneasy  jocularity.  Dan  knew  quite  well  what 
was  coming,  before  the  other  went  on,  "  So  as 
I  was  passin'  this  way,  I  just  looked  in  wid 
our  bit  of  account,  Misther  Farrell ;  it 's  been 
runnin'  this  good  while  now." 

"Ay,  bedad,"  Dan  assented  dejectedly,  "will 
you  be  steppin'  inside?" 

Inside  reigned  a  brownish  twilight,  and  the 
corners  were  all  rounded  off  with  smoke-haze. 
One  of  them  was  occupied  by  Brian  Mahony, 
a  neighbour  of  the  Farrells,  who,  since  Dan's 
illness,  had  often  come  in  to  lend  him  a 
hand.  This  morning  he  had  undertaken  the 
repairs  of  a  turf-creel.  He  was  a  powerful- 
looking  young  man,  with  a  shock  of  chestnut 
hair  and  tawny  tufts  and  frills  about  his  face, 
which  just  then  wore  a  glum  expression,  mis- 
liking  the  entrance  of  Stevie  Grogan.  His 
dissatisfaction  caused  him  to  appear  deeply 
absorbed  in  his  task,  and  to  discuss  it  with 
the  little  Farrells,  who  stood  around  to  watch 
his  splicing  and  weaving.  They  were  unsus- 
pectingly flattered  by  his  unusual  disposition 
to  consult  them,  and  they  favoured  him  with 
much  criticism  and  advice. 


AN    ACCOUNT    SETTLED        137 

"Sit  you  down,  man,  and  warm  yourself," 
said  Dan,  taking  the  glazy  blue  paper  which 
young  Grogan  had  extracted  from  a  thin 
pocket-book  bound  in  black  American  cloth, 
and  tied  round  with  frayed  strings  of  pink 
tape.  "  I  'm  afeard  we  haven't  e'en  a  sup  of 
anythin'  in  the  house." 

As  Stevie  seated  himself  near  the  circle  of 
glowing  sods,  Dan  carried  his  bill  over  to  the 
window,  that  the  light  of  its  one  deep-set 
pane  might  assist  his  somewhat  feeble  scholar- 
ship in  spelling  out  the  items.  Many  of 
them  baffled  him  completely,  but  the  grand 
total  of  one  pound  five  shillings  appeared 
with  cruel  distinctness,  and  caused  him  serious 
dismay.  He  had  been  prepared  for  a  sum 
that  would  make  a  very  large  hole  in  one  of 
his  few  precious  notes,  and  even  this  prospect 
W£is  grievous.  But  the  demand  for  a  whole 
note,  body  and  bones,  and  some  silver  too, 
came  as  an  unexpected  stroke.  His  hands 
shook  as  he  held  the  paper  to  the  light, 
obscured  by  the  leaves  of  a  straggling  gera- 
nium plant,  and  he  felt  bitterly  convinced 
that  he  was  being  cheated.  Manners,  how- 
ever, would  not  permit  him  to  enter  any 
protest  beyond  saying  to  his  niece — 


138    A    CREEL    OF   IRISH    STORIES 

"  Musha,  Sally,  it 's  a  terrible  sight  of  sugar 
you  seem  to  ha'  been  usin'." 

Upon  this  Stevie  of  course  said — 

"  And  I  'm  sure  she  doesn't  want  it,  any- 
way,"— smirking  gallantly  at  Sarah,  who  had 
sat  down  in  the  adjacent  chimney-corner  and 
taken  up  her  strip  of  lace-work. 

"Won'erful  fine  talk  you  have,"  said  Sarah. 

"And  divil  a  word  but  the  truth,  talkin'  ot 
you,"  rejoined  Stevie,  sidling  a  little  nearer  to 
her  along  his  rickety-legged  bench, 

Sarah  replied  by  making  a  threatening 
demonstration  with  her  needle,  which  caused 
her  frail  thread  to  snap. 

"There  now,  you  have  it  broke  on  me,"  she 
said,  "  and  sorra  the  bit  of  you 's  worth  the 
throuble  of  tyin'  a  knot." 

"Ah  now,  don't  say  so.  Miss  Tighe,"  Stevie 
said  insinuatingly.  "That's  an  iligant  little 
pattron  you  have  been  doin',  oncommon  tasty. 
We  have  some  thread-lace  edgin'  at  our  place 
that  I  declare  isn't  a  ha'porth  better,  and  it 
comes  to  as  much  as  thruppence  a  yard." 
He  intended  the  highest  compliment,  but  did 
only  plunge  himself  the  deeper  into  the 
depths  of  her  disfavour  by  thus  evening  her 
delicate    point    to    his    coarse,    machine-made 


AN    ACCOUNT    SETTLED        139 

wares.  She  chose,  however,  for  the  time 
being,  to  dissemble  her  wrath  against  him, 
because  she  was  angrier  with  Brian  Mahony 
for  his  persistence  in  evidently  ignoring  her 
flirtation,  and  keeping  up  an  unconcerned 
chatter  addressed  to  the  children.  So  she 
accepted  Stevie's  offer  to  join  the  broken 
thread  for  her,  and  was  coquettishly  derisive 
of  his  clumsy-fingered  failures,  with  much 
tittering  and  ostentatious  enjoyment  of  the 
situation ;  and,  in  like  manner,  Brian  worked 
away  at  the  ragged-rimmed  creel,  and  only 
desisted  occasionally  to  scuffle  sportively  with 
Jimmy  or  Biddy  for  the  possession  of  a  long 
supple  osier.  Nobody  could  suppose  him  toi 
care  a  thraneen  what  Sarah  and  the  chap 
from  Grogan's  found  so  amusing.  He  had 
something  else  to  do  than  to  be  botherin' 
his  head  about  them. 

Meanwhile  the  master  of  the  house  was 
performing  his  part — a  sad  one — in  the  small 
drama.  He  lifted  a  brown  earthenware  teapot 
out  of  its  niche  in  the  mud  wall  projecting 
beside  the  hearth.  Its  removal  discovered  the 
opening  of  another  recess,  whence  he  drew  a 
rough  deal  box  with  a  broken  lid.  In  this 
the   Farrells    apparently    stored    miscellaneous 


I40    A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

valuables,  for  it  contained  a  little  roll  of  bank- 
notes, a  grey  flannel  bag  with  silver  in  it,  an 
old  prayer-book  that  had  belonged  to  Mrs 
Farrell,  some  spools  of  cotton,  and  so  forth. 
Dan  slowly  peeled  off  one  of  the  begrimed 
Munster  notes,  and,  pre-occupied  with  regretful 
calculations,  he  forgot  the  shillings  which  were 
due,  and  restored  box  and  teapot  to  their 
places.  Then  he  laid  down  the  note  on  the 
window-seat,  spread  out  the  bluish  bill  beside 
it,  and  stood  smoothing  both  bits  of  paper 
with  the  palm  of  his  hand. 

"There's  that,"  he  said. 

"  Sure,  I  '11  be  signin'  the  resate,"  said  Stevie, 
jumping  up  with  alacrity,  and  producing  his 
shiny  black  pocket-book  and  red  chalk  pencil. 
But  he  came  to  a  pause  as  he  noticed  the 
absence  of  the  silver.  He  looked  interroga- 
tively at  Dan.  The  man's  careworn,  broken- 
down  aspect,  his  lined  face  and  tattered 
garments  gave  his  creditor  a  conscience-stricken 
twinge,  and  for  an  instant  suggested  the 
possibility  of  renouncing  that  toll.  Stevie,  how- 
ever, quickly  ascertained  that  this  was  too  much 
to  expect  from  himself;  the  sum  would  come  in 
just  then  too  handily  to  be  forgone,  and  he  com- 
promised the  matter  by  resolving  to  see  that  the 


AN    ACCOUNT    SETTLED        141 

Farrells  were  let  off  easily  in  their  next  account. 
Future  generosity  is  always  easier  than  present 
justice,  especially  when  the  postponed  virtue  can 
be  practised  at  somebody  else's  expense.     So — 

"  There  was  thim  five  shillin's  comin'  to  us," 
said  Stevie,  continuing  to  look  at  Dan. 

"  Och,  murder,  tub  be  sure  there  was.  It 's 
meself 's  the  gaby,"  said  Dan  disconcerted ly ; 
and  he  went  towards  the  niche  to  rectify  his 
blunder,  but  he  was  interrupted  by  his  niece. 

"  Sure  I  '11  fetch  it  out.  Uncle  Dan,"  she  said. 
"  It 's  throublesome  for  you  to  be  stoopin'."  Mr 
Grogan  can  be  puttin'  his  name  on  the 
account." 

She  fumbled  for  a  few  moments  in  the  box, 
and  came  over  to  the  window  with  a  large 
silver  coin  in  her  hand.  It  was  a  crown-piece, 
which,  although  it  bore  the  stamp  of  the  fourth 
George,  still  retained  its  sturdy  thickness  and 
bold  outlines  unimpaired,  as  if  it  had  changed 
owners  slowly.  Around  this  she  was  wrapping 
a  bit  of  crumpled,  thin  paper,  perceiving  which 
her  uncle  said — 

"  Sure,  girl  alive,  I  've  got  the  note  here  right 
enough." 

"  But  it 's  my  belief  'twas  the  dirtiest  one  you 
had     that     you     sorted     out,"     replied     Sarah 


142     A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

promptly.  "  Now  /'ve  found  him  a  dacint 
clane  one ;  and  I  'm  sure  you  'd  a  dale  liefer 
be  takin'  it  wid  you,  Mr  Grogan?" 

"'Deed  you  may  depind  upon  that,  Miss 
Tighe,"  Stevie  said,  with  an  elated  smirk ;  "  and 
hard-set  I  '11  be  to  part  wid  it,  when  I  consider 
how  you  put  yourself  about  to  be  pickin'  and 
choosin'  for  me." 

Here  Brian  Mahony  abruptly  threw  down 
his  creel  and  flung  out  of  the  house,  with  a 
scowl  which  did  not  escape  Sarah's  observation. 
It  did  not  please  her,  somehow,  any  better  than 
his  previous  air  of  unconcern,  whence  we  may 
infer  that  her  mood  was  capricious  and  contrary. 
Stevie  Grogan,  at  any  rate,  presently  had  reason 
to  think  it  so,  and  a  flatness  and  tartness  came 
over  the  conversation,  not  inviting  him  to 
prolong  his  visit.     After  three  snubs — 

"The  day's  darkenin'  again,"  he  said,  "and 
I  '11  be  getting  along  afore  there 's  another 
plump  of  rain."  He  took  leave  of  Dan,  who 
was  reflecting  sorrowfully  how  much  poorer 
a  man  the  last  half-hour  had  made  him,  and 
went  to  the  door,  accompanied  by  Sarah. 
"  Bedad  !  "  he  said,  glancing  around,  "  I  think 
the  sthrame  looks  to  have  quieted  itself  a 
goodish  bit.     I  might  be  steppin'  across  them 


AN    ACCOUNT    SETTLED        143 

stones,  it  saves  better  than  a  mile  when  you 
get  into  the  bog  over  yonder." 

It  is  possible  that  Stevie  was  determined  to 
adopt  this  course  less  by  the  aspect  of  the  river 
than  by  a  glimpse  which  he  at  that  moment 
had  had  of  Brian  lounging  moodily  upon  the 
bridge  where  he  must  otherwise  pass.  But  if 
that  were  the  case,  his  plan  failed  of  its  purpose. 
For  as  he  walked  through  the  tangled  oats 
followed  by  Sarah,  who  had  bethought  her  of  a 
message  to  give  him  for  her  mother,  Brian 
espied  them,  and  immediately  descended  from 
the  bridge  and  made  for  the  ford  along  the 
river's  bank.  He  could  not  resist  the  spell 
which  drew  him  to  every  opportunity  of 
tormenting  himself  by  witnessing  what  his 
jealous  mind  regarded  as  Sarah's  marked  pre- 
ference for  young  Grogan,  and  he  sped  so 
recklessly,  stumbling  and  tripping  over  wisps 
of  weeds  and  grass,  that  he  reached  the  stepping- 
stones  just  as  the  others  did. 

On  this  occasion,  however,  his  feelings  were 
not  to  be  harrowed  by  the  display  of  much  senti- 
ment or  facetiousness  at  leave-taking,  as  it  was 
drowned  in  a  sudden  burst  of  rain,  which  made 
Sarah  pull  her  fringed  shawl  into  deep  eaves 
over  her  face,  and  gasp  out  with  ducked  head — 


144    A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

"Och,  mercy  on  us,  here's  polthogues  —  I 
must  run  for  me  life,  and  you  'd  best  step  out, 
Stevie  Grogan,  or  you'll  be  bogged  entirely 
before  you  get  home." 

Thus  exhorted,  Stevie  began  hurriedly  to 
stride  from  stone  to  stone.  In  one  hand 
he  held  the  shiny  pocket-book,  and  with 
the  other  he  clutched  the  brim  of  his  black 
felt  hat,  which  a  rising  gust  momentarily 
threatened  to  whisk  away.  He  was  nearly 
half  over,  when  the  wind  came  swooping 
past  in  a  furious  flurry,  and  at  the  same 
time  a  thicker  coil  of  the  brown  river-water 
broke  on  the  stones,  making  one  on  which 
he  had  just  set  his  foot  wobble  violently. 
The  consequence  was  that  he  stumbled 
badly,  only  keeping  his  balance  by  a  head- 
long plunge  forward  with  outspread  arms ; 
and  not  till  he  had  floundered  on  to  the 
opposite  bank  did  he  perceive  that  his  hat 
and  book  were  both  missing.  His  hat,  after 
a  high-whirled  flight,  lit  on  the  rapid  stream, 
and  went  skimming  down  it  without  let  or 
hindrance,  while  his  more  precious  book 
described  a  parabolic  curve  in  the  air,  and 
dropped  into  the  water  near  the  place  where 
Brian    and    Sarah    stood.      For   a   moment   it 


AN    ACCOUNT    SETTLED        145 

lay  on  the  surface,  and  Brian,  leaning  over 
at  a  dangerous  angle,  tried  to  reach  it  with 
his  long  osier  rod.  Upon  which  Sarah,  grip- 
ping him  by  the  arm,  pulled  him  back  with 
all  her  might,  saying  in  an  agonised  tone : 

"  Och,  goodness  gracious,  man,  get  out  of 
that,  and  let  it  be ! "  But  even  as  she  spoke, 
the  black  cover,  weighed  down,  no  doubt,  by 
the  filched  crown -piece,  sunk  out  of  sight 
and  was  no  more  seen.  A  few  seconds  later, 
however,  the  rough  brown  eddies  a  little 
lower  down  became  strewn  with  small  flecks 
whiter  than  the  creamy  foam.  Evidently 
the  strings  and  covers  had  collapsed,  and 
let  their  frail  contents  go  to  wrack. 

"Sure  it's  every  bit  of  it  flitthered  into 
laves,"  said  Sarah,  releasing  Brian's  arm ; 
"  niver  sight  nor  light  of  it  he  '11  get  the 
chance  to  lay  eyes  on  agin,  note  or  no  note." 
The  tone  in  which  she  announced  this  fact 
was  both  relieved  and  triumphant.  As  for  the 
owner  of  that  perishing  property,  he  stood  on 
the  opposite  bank,  bare-headed  in  the  pelting 
rain,  discontented  and  woe-begone,  an  object 
to  move  pity.  But  Sarah  added :  "  And  the 
divil's  cure  to  him,  the  thievin'  slieveen.  We  Ve 
got  the  resate  off  him   all  right  any  way." 

K 


146    A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

Brian,  on  the  contrary,  now  took  off  his  own 
limp  cloth  cap,  crumpled  it  round  a  great  shingle 
stone  for  ballast,  and  flung  it  across  to  Stevie. 

"  Clap  that  on  your  head,  and  be  leggin' 
it  home  wid  you,  if  you  '11  take  my  advice," 
he  shouted  against  the  wind ;  "  you'll  get 
nothin',  unless  it's  your  death  of  could, 
standin'  there  in  the  rain.  Belike  we  might  be 
some  odd  chance  get  the  five  shillin'  piece  at  the 
bottom,  when  the  river  goes  down,  but  them 
bits  of  papers  is  past  prayin'  for  intirely." 
This  seemed  obvious  even  to  the  unwillingly 
convinced  Stevie,  and  he  started  dolefully 
through  the  driving  rain,  half-blinded  by  it 
and  the  descending  peak  of  Brian's  too  roomy 
cap.  The  others  raced  home  under  much 
less  trying  circumstances,  and  were  speedily 
sheltered  beneath  Dan  Farrell's  thatch. 

Sarah  took  her  strip  of  lace-work,  and 
sat  down  with  it  in  the  brighter  patch  by 
the  window.  She  was  filling  in  the  centre 
of  a  fantastic  blossom  with  a  pattern  which 
seemed  to  have  been  suggested  by  the  dewy 
web  of  some  long-legged  spinner  hitched  from 
blade  point  to  point.  Brian  Mahony  fetched 
his  creel  and  osiers  out  of  the  corner,  and 
stood   opposite    to   her,   busy   with   his    coarse 


AN    ACCOUNT    SETTLED        147 

weaving.  Now  and  then  he  looked  at  her 
complacently  as  she  stooped  over  her  fine 
stitches,  and  for  some  time  neither  of  them 
spoke.     At  last  Brian  said — • 

"  That  was  a  fine  fright  I  'm  after  giving 
you  down  there,  Sarah.  You  have  the  sleeve 
nearly  rieved  out  of  my  ould  coat.  Was  it 
dhrowndin'  meself  you  thought  I  'd  be  that 
you  took  such  a  hould  of  me?" 

"  Dhrowndin'  himself?  Frightenin'  me  ? 
Musha  good  gracious,  what  talk  has  the 
man  out  of  him  at  all  ? "  Sarah  said  with 
shrill  ejaculation.  "Bedad,  if  that  was  all 
that  ailed  the  likes  of  you,  I  'd  ha'  had 
somethin'  better  to  be  at  than  throublin' 
myself  to  interfere  wid  you.  But  afeared  I 
was  that  you  'd  be  hookin'  that  chap's  ould 
book  ashore  on  us ;  thryin'  your  best  you 
were  to  do  that  fool's  thrick." 

"And  what  for  wouldn't  I  be  saving  it  if  I 
could?"  said  Brian,  partly  consoled  for  the  un- 
flattering explanation  of  his  solicitude  by  the 
animosity  of  her  tone  when  she  mentioned  that 
chap ;  "sure,  onst  the  money  was  ped  away,  you 
were  nothin'  the  betther  for  it  goin'  to  loss." 

"That's  all  you  know  about  it,"  said  Sarah, 
with  mysterious   glee.      She   glanced  round  to 


148    A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

see  whether  her  uncle  by  the  hearth  were 
Hstening,  and  as  he  appeared  to  be  half-asleep, 
she  went  on  in  a  lower  tone :  "  Why,  'look 
here,  Brian  —  sure  that  grand  clane  pound- 
note  I  let  on  to  be  sortin'  out  for  him,  ne'er 
a  note  it  was  at  all,  but  just  an  ould  bit  of 
the  silver-paper  pattron  I  had  workin'  me  lace 
from ;  when  it 's  crumpled  up  and  creased  like, 
it  looks  the  very  moral  of  one,  and  the  great 
gomeral  stuck  it  into  his  book  widout  takin' 
the  throuble  of  unfoldin'  it,  be  good  luck." 

"And  what  at  all  did  you  do  that  for?" 
asked  Brian  after  a  puzzled  pause. 

"What  for?"  said  Sarah,  "sure  in  the  first 
beginnin'  of  it  'twas  just  to  be  risin'  a  laugh 
on  him ;  that  was  all  the  notion  I  had.  It 
come  in  me  head  when  I  was  lookin'  for  the 
shilHn's,  and  seen  the  thin  paper  there.  But 
afterwards,  when  he  tuk  and  put  it  up  widout 
mindin',  thinks  I  to  myself,  I  '11  ha'  given  him 
a  good  long  thramp  over  it  anyway ;  it 's  back 
he'll  be  thrapesin'  to-morra  or  next  day  to 
get  the  right  one,  in  a  fine  fantigue.  But 
now  when  he's  slung  the  whole  affair  into 
the  wather,  so  as  nobody '11  be  the  wiser  what 
was  in  th'  ould  pocket-book  and  what  wasn't, 
that's  the  greatest  chance  could  ha'  happened, 


AN    ACCOUNT    SETTLED        149 

and  we  wid  the  resate  signed  and  all,  the  way 
he  can't  say  a  word  agin  us.  It's  as  good  as 
a  pound  saved  to  me  uncle,  poor  man,  that's 
annoyed  enough  wid  his  bit  of  harvest  ruinated 
and  everythin'.  And  you  doin'  your  endeavours 
to  destroy  it  all  wid  fishin'  the  book  out ; 
small  blame  to  me  if  I  'd  pulled  the  fool's 
arm  off  of  you,  let  alone  your  ould  sleeve." 

"  It  was  no  thing  to  go  do,"  said  Brian 
gruffly,  "  to  be  playin'  them  sort  of  thricks." 

"  Sorra  the  ha'porth  of  harm  was  there  in 
it,"  Sarah  replied  airily ;  "  and  considerin'  that 
whatever  he  got's  swallied  up  in  the  river, 
'twould  ha'  been  a  cruel  pity  if  we'd  gave 
him  anythin'  betther." 

"You'd  a  right  to  be  sendin'  him  the  rael 
note  now,"  said  Brian  with  decision. 

"Saints  above!  Whethen  now,  I  hope 
you'll  get  your  health  until  I  do,"  said  Sarah, 
with  a  shrillness  subdued  by  her  uncle's 
proximity.  "  That  'd  be  a  nice  piece  of 
foolery.  Why,  you  sthookawn,  the  young 
slieveen's  no  worse  off  this  minute  than  he 
would  ha'  been  if  I  was  after  givin'  him  a 
five-pound  note  to  drop  out  of  his  hand." 

"You  got  the  resate  off  of  him  for  nothin' 
at  all,"    said    Brian ;    "  he 's   never    been    pcd. 


ISO     A    CREEL   OF    IRISH    STORIES 

And  the  river  makes  no  differ.  How  would  it, 
when  he  hadn't  any  thin'  of  yours  to  lose  in  it?" 

"  That 's  just  what  I  'm  say  in'.  It  makes  no 
odds  to  him ;  he  'd  ha'  lost  it  whether  or  no. 
And  for  the  matther  of  that,  he's  been  ped  times 
and  again  for  anythin'  Uncle  Dan  ever  got  from 
them,  poor  man ;  for  them  Grogans  are  notori- 
ous thieves,  as  everybody  well  knows.  Me  sister 
was  tellin'  us  the  other  day,  they  charge  three 
shillin's  a  pound  for  tay  that's  on'y  eighteen- 
pence  in  Dublin,  It's  a  charity  to  let  them 
have  a  taste  of  chatin'  for  themselves.  Not  that 
we  're  chatin'  them  at  all  at  all,  it  so  happens." 

Brian  listened  quite  unimpressed,  having  no 
turn  for  casuistry.  He  now  condescended, 
however,  to  urge  an  objection  based  upon 
the  expedient. 

"And  what '11  your  uncle  say  to  it,  when 
he  finds  he's  got  a  pound  too  much?" 

"  I  was  thinkin'  of  that,"  said  Sarah,  nowise 
disconcerted.  "  Belike  I  could  persuade  him 
he  miscounted  them  at  the  fair.  But  I  dare 
say  'twould  be  better  if  I  just  slipt  one  off 
the  roll,  and  kep'  it  to  get  odds  and  ends  of 
things  wid  for  him,  accord  in'  as  they  would  be 
wanted,  and  never  let  on  about  it  Och,  no 
fear,  but  I  '11  conthrive  one  way  or  the  other." 


AN    ACCOUNT    SETTLED        151 

"  Ay,  bedad ;  it  seems  to  me  that  you  're 
great  at  conthrivin'  and  schemin',"  said  Brian 
bitterly.  "  I  've  as  good  a  mind  as  ever  I 
had  in  me  life  to  tell  him  the  whole  affair." 

"And  if  you  offer  to  do  such  a  thing  on 
me,  you  ould  clashbag,  you ! "  Sarah  said  in 
a  furious  whisper,  "  sorra  a  word  I  '11  spake 
to  you  agin  as  long  as  I  live  in  the  world." 

"  Faix,  then,  perhaps  I  won't  be  throublin' 
meself  to  ax  you  in  a  hurry,"  retorted  Brian, 
"when  the  on'y  talk  people  has  out  of  them 
is  tellin'  lies  and  makin'  fools  of  everybody. 
My  notion  is,  the  fewer  words  they  spake  to 
you,  the  luckier  you'll  be." 

"Plase  yourself,  and  you'll  plase  me,"  said 
Sarah,  with  an  assumption  of  calm  indiffer- 
ence, which  would  have  been  more  successfully 
achieved  if  she  had  not  flushed  to  the  scarlet 
of  a  frost-nipt  brier  leaf,  besides  adding  incon- 
sistently, "  I  'd  liefer  hear  the  pigs  gruntin' 
in  the  ould  stye  than  to  be  listenin'  to  some 
people  gabbin'  and  blatherin'." 

"And  plenty  good  enough  company  they 
are,  too,  poor  bastes,  for  the  likes  of  some  I 
could  name  —  and  long  sorry  I  'd  be  to  stop 
anywheres  I  wasn't  wanted,  wastin'  me  time 
mendin'  things,  and  gettin'  imperance  for  it — 


152    A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

and  one  while  it  '11  be  afore  you  '11  have 
raison  to  complain  of  me  disturbin'  you,"  said 
Brian,  whose  wrath  had  flared  up  even  more 
ruddily  than  hers.  And  thereupon  he  bolted 
away  into  the  rain,  without  waiting  to  borrow 
the  loan  of  Dan's  hat.  At  which  Sarah  through 
all  her  huff,  stood  somewhat  aghast,  knowing 
that  for  a  man  to  go  out  of  doors  bareheaded 
argues  no  ordinary  perturbation  of  spirit. 

After  this  there  were  many  more  wet  days,  and 
a  few  golden  fine  ones,  and  the  harvest  was  got 
in  one  way  or  the  other,  and  the  winter  came, 
and  Sarah  Tighe  went  home  to  live  with  her 
family  at  Athcrum,  and  finished  her  fine  lace 
border.  But  she  and  Brian  did  not  meet  again. 
At  last,  one  bright,  frosty  morning,  not  long  be- 
fore Christmas,  they  ran  against  each  other  com- 
ing round  the  corner  of  the  row  in  which  the 
little  post-office  stands.  Sarah  was  so  startled 
that  for  a  moment  or  two  she  halted,  irresolute, 
ere  she  recollected  that  it  behoved  her  to 
flounce  past  him  with  up-tilted  chin.  She  was 
just  proceeding  to  do  so,  when  he  twitched  her 
shawl,  and  said,  in  an  expostulatory  tone — 

"Och  now,  Sarah,  is  it  cross  wid  me  ye 're 
goin'  to  be  all  this  time?" 

"  It   isn't   me   that 's    cross   wid   anybody   at 


AN    ACCOUNT    SETTLED        153 

all,"  said  Sarah,  subsiding  lamentably  from 
her  dignified  attitude. 

"  Sure  then,"  said  Brian,  "  I  was  on'y  wantin' 
to  tell  you  what  I  've  done  about  that  pound- 
note  was  owin'  to  the  Grogans.  Sooner  than 
that  you'd  have  anythin' — anythin'  quare-like 
on  your  conscience,  I  've  saved  up,  and  sent  it 
to  th'ould  miscreant  in  a  letter.  So  it  can't 
come  agin  you  now  anyway.  I  'm  just  after 
postin'  it  this  minute." 

"  Och,  murdher !  and  are  you  so  ? "  said 
Sarah,  with  an  accent  of  the  keenest  regret. 
"And  weren't  you  the  gomeral  to  not  tell 
me  that  last  week?" 

"And  I  on'y  droppin'  it  in  the  letter-box 
this  instiant  of  time  ? "  said  Brian.  "  But  at 
all  events,  what  differ  'd  that  have  made  ? " 

"  Differ  enough,"  said  Sarah  ruefully.  "  You 
see,  the  fact  of  the  matter  was,  when  I  come 
to  considher,  I  didn't  know  but  the  ould 
naygur  Grogan  had  a  right  to  that  pound- 
note  after  all ;  so  last  week,  when  I  sold  me 
flounce  of  deep  lace  for  thirty  shillin's,  I  got 
an  order,  and  put  it  in  a  cover,  and  sent  it  to 
ould  Natty  himself  I  wasn't  goin'  to  let  that 
young  thief  of  the  world,  Stevie,  be  layin'  one  of 
his  greasy  fingers  on  it,  anyhow ;  and  even  so  I 


154    A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

thought  badly  enough  of  postin'  it  away.  For 
now  the  winter 's  comin'  on  us,  there  was  a  dale 
of  things  I'd  liefer  ha'  done  wid  it." 

"  Begorra,  that 's  the  very  same  way  it  was 
wid  me  just  now,"  said  Brian. 

"  Maybe  the  post-mistress  'd  give  it  back  to 
you,  if  you  thried,"  suggested  Sarah.  "  She 
couldn't  hardly  ha'  done  anythin'  wid  the 
letters  yet." 

"  Sorra  a  thry  I  '11  thry,"  said  Brian,  with 
decision.  "  Sure  I  wasn't  manin'  to  say  that 
I  begrudged  it  e'er  a  bit,  Sally,  when  A  was 
settin'  things  straight  for  you,  acushla." 

"  Ah,  but  to  think  of  payin'  them  twyste  over 
— that's  what  distresses  me,"  said  Sarah,  who 
did  not,  however,  look  inconsolable.  "'Deed, 
now,  we  managed  it  finely,  Brian ;  I  'm  afeard 
that  you  and  I  are  a  great  pair  of  fools." 

But  Brian  replied  with  complacent  prompti- 
tude, "True  for  you,  then,  Sally,  machree; 
that 's  just  the  way  it  is.  Fools  we  are,  very 
belike,  and  a  pair  we  are  for  sartin.  Och 
now,  honey,  be  aisy ;  sure  'twas  yourself  said 
it.  And  maybe  we  '11  do  all  as  well  as  if  we  'd 
had  more  wit.  It's  continted  I  am,  anyway. 
Ay,  bedad,  a  pair  of  fools — but  them  Grogans 
are  welcome  to  their  couple  of  pounds." 


M'NEILLS'    TIGER-SHEEP 


M'NEILLS'  TIGER-SHEEP 

•y^HE  feud  between  the  Timothy  O'Farrells 
1  and  Neil  M'Neills  at  Meenaclure  was 
not  of  very  long  standing,  for  the  dowager 
Mrs  O'Farrell  and  the  elder  Mrs  M'Neill,  who 
had  been  by  no  means  young  when  it  began, 
were  still  to  the  fore,  and  not  yet  even  con- 
sidered to  have  attained  "a  great  ould  age 
intirely."  This  seems  a  mere  mushroom- 
growth  compared  with  some  of  our  family 
quarrels,  which  have  been  handed  down  from 
father  to  son  through  so  many  generations 
that  everybody  regards  them  as  a  part  of 
the  established  order  of  things  in  the  world 
of  their  parish.  Still,  to  the  younger  people, 
who  had  been  but  children  at  its  birth,  it 
seemed  to  have  lasted  a  long  while,  and  their 
juniors  would  have  found  a  different  state  of 
affairs  almost  unthinkable.  For  them  the 
origin  of  the  enmity  had  already  begun  to 
loom  dimly  through  a  mist  of  tradition,  which 
would  tend  as  time  went  on  to  grow  vaguer 
and  falser,  until  at  length  nobody  would  be 
left  who  could  give  a  clear  account  of  what 
157 


158     A  CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

it  was  all  about.  So  far,  however,  all  the 
neighbours  who  were  "any  age  to  speak  of" 
knew  the  rights  of  the  case  well  enough. 
And  this  is  what  had  happened. 

It  was  a  cloudless  midsummer  evening, 
perhaps  twenty  years  back — nobody  is  over- 
particular about  chronology  at  Meenaclure — 
and  all  the  dogs  and  children  were  away  out 
on  the  wild  land  towards  the  mountains, 
minding  the  sheep,  to  keep  them  from  com- 
ing home  and  eating  up  the  crops.  From 
April  to  October  that  was  every  year  their 
occupation,  and  a  very  engrossing  one  they 
found  it.  For  the  scraggy  little  sheep  of 
the  district  are  endowed  with  an  appetite 
for  green  food  worthy  of  any  locust,  added 
to  a  cleverness  at  taking  fences  that  would 
discredit  no  hunter;  and  this  makes  them  a 
constant  peril  to  the  painfully-tilled  fields, 
whose  produce  they  threaten  like  a  sort  of 
visibly-embodied  blight.  Luckily,  it  is  one 
whose  ravages  can  be  averted  by  timely  pre- 
cautions ;  and  therefore,  as  soon  as  potatoes 
are  kibbed^  and  oats  sown,  the  sheep  are 
driven  off  to  a  discreet  distance  on  the  moors, 
whence  they  are  prevented  from  retiirning  by 
a  strong  cordon  of  wary  mongrels  and  active 


M'NEILLS'    TIGER-SHEEP        159 

spalpeens.  The  children  of  such  places  as 
Meenaclure  find  the  sunnier  half  of  the  year 
a  season  of  perpetual  school-vacation,  when 
the  longest  days  are  watched  out  to  their 
last  lingering  glimmer  among  the  tussocks 
and  boulders,  so  that  the  morning  seems  to 
have  begun  ages  and  ages  ago  by  the  time 
one  straggles  home,  three  -  parts  asleep  on 
one's  feet,  the  flocks  having  already  betaken 
themselves  to  completer  repose,  or,  recognising 
the  unattainability  of  young  green  oats,  hav- 
ing set  their  nibbling  mouths  safely  up  the 
swarded  hill-slopes.  For  that  night  the  fields 
may  lie  secure  from  marauding  trespassers. 

On  this  particular  day,  however,  owing  to 
some  remissness  of  the  young  M'Neills  and 
their  shrewd-visaged  dog,  who  were  all  led 
away  by  the  excitement  of  a  rabbit-hunt,  one 
of  the  sheep  under  their  charge  successfully 
eluded  observation,  and  broke  through  the 
line,  with  two  comrades  presently  pattering 
after  her.  With  a  wiliness  well  masked  by 
her  expression  of  meek  fatuity,  she  slunk  along 
unseen  in  furzy  folds  of  the  broken  ground, 
and  late  in  the  afternoon  had  arrived  near 
the  forbidden  pastures.  There  she  lurked 
furtively  for  a  while,    fully  determined  to  hop 


i6o    A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

over  the  fence  of  Timothy  O'Farrell's  oatfield, 
the  very  first  moment  that  nobody  seemed 
to  be  about  This  opportunity  soon  occurred, 
as  the  O'Farrells'  holding  hes  somewhat  apart 
in  a  slight  hollow,  which  secludes  it  from  the 
little  cabin-cluster  standing  a  bit  higher  round 
a  curve  in  the  long  green  glacis-like  foot- 
slope  of  Slieve  Gowran. 

Thus  it  came  to  pass  that  when  Timothy 
O'Farrell  returned  from  turf-cutting  on  the 
bog  with  his  sister  Margaret  and  his  brothers 
Hugh  and  Patrick,  the  first  thing  they  noticed 
was  an  object  like  a  movable  grey  boulder 
cropping  up  on  the  delicate  sheeny  surface 
of  their  oat-patch.  Whereupon :  "  Be  the 
powers  of  smoke,"  said  Timothy,  "if  there 
isn't  them  bastes  in  it  agin." 

"  Three  of  them,  no  less,"  said  Margaret. 

"  M'Neills',  you  may  bet  your  brogues,"  said 
Hugh. 

"  The  divil  doubt  it,"  said  Timothy.  Patrick, 
who  was  a  youth  of  action  rather  than  speech, 
had  already  plunged  head-foremost  towards 
the  scene  of  the  trespass. 

There  were  several  reasons  why  doubts  of 
the  M'Neills'  responsibility  in  the  matter  should 
be  relegated   to  the  divil.      In  the  first   place, 


M'NE  ILLS'    TIGER-SHEEP       i6i 

the  M'Neills  owned  more  sheep  than  anybody 
else  at  Meenaclure,  whereas  the  O'Farrells 
owned  none ;  and  secondly,  the  O'Farrells 
had  sown  an  unusually  extensive  patch  of 
oats,  while  the  M'Neills  had  planted  potatoes 
only.  The  tendencies  of  this  situation  are 
obvious.  Again,  the  O'Farrells  had  more 
than  once  before  undergone  the  like  inroads, 
and  on  these  occasions  Neil  M'Neill  had  not, 
Timothy  considered,  shown  by  any  means 
an  adequate  amount  of  penitence.  "  Bedad, 
now,"  Timothy  reported  to  his  family,  "he 
was  cool  enough  over  it.  Maybe  it's  his 
notion  of  fine  farmin'  to  graze  his  bastes  on 
other  people's  growin'  crops."  A  deep-rooted 
sentiment  of  respect,  however,  restrained  him 
from  uttering  these  sarcasms  in  public.  For 
Timothy,  though  the  head  and  father  of  a 
family,  had  seen  not  many  more  than  a 
score  of  harvests ;  and  Neil,  a  dozen  years 
his  senior,  enjoyed  a  high  reputation  among 
the  neighbours  as  a  very  knowledgable  man 
altogether.  After  the  second  incursion,  it  is 
true,  Timothy's  wrath  had  so  far  overcrowed 
his  awe  as  to  make  him  "  up  and  tell "  Neil 
M'Neill  that  "  if  he  didn't  mind  his  ould  shows 
of  sheep   himself,  he'd   be  apt   to   find   some- 

L 


i62     A    CREEL    OF   IRISH    STORIES 

body  that  'd  do  it  in  a  way  he  mightn't 
like."  Still,  the  affair  went  no  farther,  and 
Timothy  had  soon  reverted  to  his  customary 
attitude  of  amicable  veneration.  But  at  this 
third  repetition  of  the  offence  his  anger  could 
not  be  expected  to  subside  so  harmlessly. 

Pat's  shouts  and  flourishing  gallop  speedily 
routed  the  conscious-stricken  sheep,  and  two  of 
them  whisked  up  the  hillside  like  thistledown 
on  a  brisk  breeze ;  but  the  third,  who  was  the 
ringleader,  leaped  the  fence  with  so  little  judg- 
ment that  she  came  floundering  against  Timothy, 
who  grasped  her  dexterously  by  the  hind-legs. 

Now,  to  catch  a  Slieve  Gowran  sheep  alive 
in  the  open  is  a  rare  and  difficult  feat — pro- 
verbially impossible,  indeed,  at  Meenaclure; 
but  Timothy  and  his  brethren  were  at  a  loss 
how  they  should  best  turn  this  achievement 
of  it  to  account.  They  felt  that  simply  to  let 
the  creature  go  again  would  be  a  flat  and 
unprofitable  result,  yet  what  else  could  they 
do  with  it?  While  they  pondered,  and  their 
captive  impotently  wriggled,  Hugh  suddenly 
had  an  inspiration.  It  came  to  him  at  the 
sight  of  two  large  black  pots,  which  stood 
beside  a  smouldering  fire  against  the  white 
end-wall   of  their   little   house.      To   an   uncn- 


M'NEILLS'    TIGER-SHEEP        163 

lightened  observer,  they  might  have  suggested 
some  gipsy  encampment,  but  Hugh  knew  they 
betokened  that  his  mother  had  been  dyeing 
her  yarn.  The  Widow  O'Farrell  was  a  great 
spinner,  and  a  large  part  of  the  wool  shorn 
in  the  parish  travelled  over  her  whirring 
wheel  on  its  way  to  Fergus  the  weaver's  loom. 
A  few  old  sacks  lying  near  the  fire  had  con- 
tained the  ingredients  which  she  used  accord- 
ing to  an  immemorial  recipe.  From  the 
mottled  grey  lichen,  crottal,  which  clothes  our 
boulders  with  hues  strangely  like  those  of 
the  fleeces  browsing  among  them,  she  ex- 
tracted a  warm  tawny  brown ;  a  flaky  mass 
of  the  rusty  black  turf-soot  supplied  her  with 
a  strong  yellow,  and  the  dull-red  bog-ore 
boiled  paradoxically  into  black. 

"  Be  aisy,  will  you,  you  little  thief  of  the 
mischief,"  Hugh  said  to  the  sheep.  "  M'Neills' 
she  is,  sure  enough ;  there 's  the  mark.  Musha, 
lads,  let 's  give  her  a  dab  or  so  of  what 's 
left  in  the  ould  pots.  'Twould  improve  her 
apparance  finely." 

"Ay  would  it,"  said  Timothy.  "She's  an 
unnathural  ugly  objic'  of  a  crathur  the  way 
she  is  now.  Bedad,  they've  a  couple  of 
barrels  desthroyed  on  us." 


i64    A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

**  A  few  odd  sthrakes  of  the  black  and  yella  'd 
make  her  look  iligant,"  said  Hugh.  "Do  you  take 
a  hould  of  her,  Tim.  Och,  man,  don't  let  her 
away,  but  lift  her  aisy.  Maggie,  did  you  see  e'er  a 
sign  of  the  stick  they  had  stirring  the  stuff  wid  ? 
But  it's  apt  to  be  cool  enough  agin  now." 

"  Ah,  boys  dear,  but  it 's  ragin'  mad  M'Neills 
'11  be  if  you  go  for  to  do  such  a  thing," 
Margaret  said,  half-scared,  and  blundering  in 
her  flurry  on  a  wrong  note,  as  she  at  once 
perceived.  For  her  brothers  promptly  re- 
sponded in  a  sort  of  fugal  movement — 

"  And  sure  who 's  purvintin'  of  them?  They  're 
welcome,  bedad,  them,  or  the  likes  of  them.  Is 
it  ragin'  ?  Maybe  it 's  raison  they  '11  have  before 
they're  a  great  while  oulder,  musha  Moyah." 
And  they  proceeded  with  all  the  greater  en- 
thusiasm to  carry  out  their  design,  which  became 
more  ambitiously  elaborate  in  the  course  of 
execution. 

Early  next  morning,  while  the  mountain- 
shadow  still  threw  a  purple  cloak  over  the  steep 
fields  of  Meenaclure,  where  all  the  dewdrops 
were  ready  to  twinkle  as  soon  as  a  ray  reached 
them,  and  when  Mrs  Neil  M'Neill  was  preparing 
breakfast,  which  at  this  short-coming  summer 
season  consisted  chiefly  of  Indian  meal,  her  eldest 


M'N  BILLS'    TIGER-SHEEP        165 

daughter  ran  in  to  her  with  news.  There  was 
somethin',  Molly  said,  leppin'  about  in  the  pig- 
stye.  Now,  the  M'Neills'  stye  just  then  stood 
empty,  in  the  interval  between  the  despatch  of 
their  last  lean  fat  pig  to  Letterkenny  fair  and 
the  hoped-for  fall  in  the  market-price  of  the 
wee  springy  which  was  to  replace  him.  So 
Mrs  Neil  said,  "  Och,  blathers,  child  alive,  what 
would  there  be  in  it  at  all  ? " 

"  But  it 's  rustlin'  in  the  straw, — I  heard  it, 
— and  duntin'  the  door  wid  its  head  like," 
Molly  persisted. 

"Sure  then,  run  and  see  what  it  is,  honey," 
said  her  mother,  who  was  pre-occupied  with  a 
critical  stage  of  her  porridge ;  and  a  piece  of 
practical  business  on  hand  generally  disposes 
us  to  adopt  a  sceptical  attitude  towards  marvels, 
"  Maybe  one  of  the  hins  might  have  fluttered 
into  it ;    but  there 's  apter  to  not  be  anythin'." 

Molly,  whose  mood  was  not  enterprising, 
reinforced  her  courage  with  the  company  of 
Judy  and  Thady  before  she  went  to  investigate ; 
and  a  minute  afterwards  she  came  rushing 
back  uttering  terrified  lamentations,  whereof 
the  burden  seemed  to  be,  "  It 's  a  tiger-sheep." 
Her  report  could  no  longer  be  disregarded, 
and    the    rest    of    the    family   were   presently 


i66     A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

grouped  round  the  low  wall  of  the  little  lean-to 
shed,  which  did  really  contain  an  inmate  of 
extraordinary  aspect.  Its  form  was  that  of  a 
newly-shorn  sheep,  long-legged  and  lank-bodied 
like  others  of  its  race,  but  in  colouring  altogether 
exceptional.  Boldly  marked  stripes  of  black 
and  tawny  yellow  alternated  all  over  it,  with 
a  brilliant  symmetry  not  surpassed  by  the 
natural  history  chromograph  which  flamed 
on  the  wall  of  Rathflesk  National  School,  and 
which  now  recurred  to  little  Molly's  mind  in 
conjunction  with  the  fact  that  the  wearer  of 
the  striated  skin  "  was  a  cruel,  savage,  wicked 
baste,  that  would  be  swallyin'  all  before  it," 
whereupon  she  had  shrieked  "  Tiger-sheep ! " 
and  fled  from  ravening  jaws. 

Her  parents  and  grandparents,  on  the  con- 
trary, stood  and  surveyed  the  phenomenon  with 
almost  unutterable  wrath.  Traces  of  a  human 
hand  in  its  production  were  plain  enough,  for  the 
beast  had  been  fastened  into  the  stye  by  a  rope 
round  her  neck,  which  was  further  ornamented 
with  long  bracken-fronds  and  tufts  of  curiously- 
coloured  wool,  studiously  grotesque.  In  fact, 
had  she  been  mercilessly  endowed  with  "the 
giftie,"  she  would  no  doubt  have  suffered  from  a 
mortification  as  acute  as  was  that  of  her  owners, 


M'NEILLS'    TIGER-SHEEP        167 

instead  of  trotting  off  quite  satisfied,  when  once 
she  was  released  and  at  Hberty  to  resume  her 
fastidious  nibbling  among  the  dewy  tussocks. 

"That's  some  divilment  of  the  O'Farrells, 
and  the  back  of  me  hand  to  the  whole  of  them  !" 
said  Neil  M'Neill,  with  clenched  eyebrows. 
"Themselves  and  their  blamed  impidence,  and 
their  stinkin'  brashes !  The  ould  woman's 
niver  done  boilin'  them  up  for  her  wool.  It 's 
slung  about  her  head  I  wish  they  were,  sooner 
than  to  be  used  for  misthratin'  other  people's 
dacint  bastes." 

"  'Deed  now,  thrue  for  you,"  said  his  mother. 
"Sure  wasn't  she  tellin'  me  herself  yesterday 
evenin'  she  'd  been  busy  all  day  gettin'  her  yarn 
dyed,  agin  she  would  be  knittin'  the  boys  their 
socks?  Gad'rin'  the  sut  she  said  she  was  this 
good  while.  That's  the  way  they  done  it — 
och,  the  vagabones  !  " 

"  It 's  a  bad  job,"  said  old  Joe  M'Neill,  shaking 
his  despondent  white  head. 

"  I  wouldn't  ever  ha'  thought  it  of  them," 
said  Mrs  Neil.  "  On'y  them  boys  is  that 
terrible  wild  ;  goodness  forgive  them,  there 's 
no  demented  notion  they  mayn't  take  into  their 
heads.  But  what  at  all  could  we  do  for  the 
misfort'nit  crather  ?    Sure  it 's  distressful  to  see 


i68     A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

her  goin'  about  that  scandalous  figure.     I  can't 
abide  the  sight  of  her." 

Our  bogland  dyes,  however,  are  very  fast, 
and  for  many  a  day  that  summer  Mrs  Neil 
had  to  endure  the  apparition  of  the  O'Farrells' 
victim,  who  of  course  became  a  painfully 
conspicuous  object  on  the  hillside,  where  she 
roamed  blissfully  unaware  of  how  her  owners' 
eyes  followed  her  with  gloomy  resentment, 
and  of  how  their  neighbours'  children,  catching 
up  Molly's  cry,  shouted  one  to  another 
derisively,  "Och,  look  at  M'Neills'  tiger- 
sheep  ! "  But  long  and  long  after  the  parti- 
coloured fleece  had  vanished  for  good  and 
all,  the  effects  of  the  outrage  continued  to 
make  themselves  felt  in  the  social  life  of 
Meenaclure,  where  it  must  be  owned  that 
the  inhabitants  are  rather  prone  to  keep 
their  grudges  in  the  same  time-proof  wallet 
with  their  gratitudes.  And  the  grudges, 
somehow,  often  seem  to  lie  atop.  In  this 
case,  moreover,  the  injury  had  an  especial 
bitterness,  because  the  M'Neills  came  of  an  old 
sheep  -  keeping  class,  whose  little  flock  was 
an  inheritance  handed  down,  dwindling, 
through  many  generations,  and  whose  main 
interests  and  activities  had  time  out   of  mind 


M'N  BILLS'    TIGER-SHEEP        169 

turned  upon  wool,  so  that  everything  connected 
with  it  had  acquired  in  their  eyes  the  peculiar 
sanctity  with  which  we  often  invest  the 
materials  and  implements  belonging  to  our 
own  craft.  A  chimney-sweep  has  probably 
some  feeling  of  disinterested  regard  for  his 
bags  and  brushes.  Accordingly,  sheep  were 
to  them  a  serious,  almost  solemn  subject, 
altogether  unsuitable  for  a  practical  joke ; 
and  an  insult  offered  to  them  was  felt  to 
strike  at  the  honour  of  the  family.  Small 
blame  to  them,  therefore,  if,  as  the  neighbours 
said,  they  were  ragin'  mad  entirely,  and 
turned  a  deaf  ear  to  all  pacific  overtures. 

The  O'Farrells,  to  do  them  justice,  admitted 
upon  reflection  that  they  had  maybe  gone  a 
little  beyond  the  beyonds,  and  were  disposed 
to  be  apologetic  and  conciliatory.  But  when 
old  Mrs  O'Farrell,  one  day  meeting  the  two 
smallest  M'Neills  on  the  road,  presented  each 
of  them  with  a  pale  brown  egg,  which  she  had 
just  found  in  the  nest  of  her  speckled  hen 
away  down  beside  the  river,  the  result  merely 
was  that  her  gifts  were  smashed  into  an  im- 
promptu omelet  before  the  M'Neills'  door,  by 
the  direction  of  the  master  of  the  house,  who 
only  wished   the   ould    sinner   had    been   there 


I70    A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

herself  to  see  the  way  he  'd  serve  that,  or 
anythin'  else  she'd  have  the  impidence  to  be 
sendin'  into  his  place.  And  later  on,  when 
the  feathery  gold  of  the  O'Farrells'  oatfield 
had  been  bound  in  stooks,  and  the  hobblede- 
hoy Pat  was  despatched  to  inquire  whether 
the  M'Neills  might  be  wantin'  e'er  a  thrifle 
of  straw  after  the  thrashin'  for  darnin'  their 
bit  of  thatch,  the  polite  attention  elicited 
nothing  except  a  peremptory  injunction  to 
"quit  out  of  that." 

In  taking  up  this  attitude,  the  M'Neills  had 
at  first  the  support  of  their  neighbours'  sym- 
pathy, public  opinion  being  that  it  was  no 
thing  for  the  O'Farrells  to  go  do.  But  as 
time  went  on,  people  began  to  add  occasionally 
that  sure  maybe  they  didn't  mean  any  such 
great  harm  after  all,  and  that  they  were  only 
young  boyoes,  without  as  much  sense  among 
the  whole  of  them  as  would  keep  a  duck 
waddling  straight.  What  was  the  use  of  being 
so  stiff  over  a  trifle?  These  magnanimous 
sentiments  were,  no  doubt,  strengthened  by 
the  fact  that  in  so  small  a  community  as 
Meenaclure  a  permanent  breach  between  any 
two  families  could  not  but  entail  some  incon- 
veniences upon  all   the   rest.     It  was  irksome, 


M'NEILLS'    TIGER-SHEEP        171 

for  instance,  to  bear  in  mind  throughout  a 
friendly  chat  that  at  the  casual  mention  of  a 
neighbour's  name  the  person  you  were  talking 
to  would  look  "as  bitter  as  sut"  and  freeze 
into  grim  dumbness ;  or  to  have  to  consider, 
should  you  wish  for  a  loan  of  Widdy  O'Farrell's 
market-basket,  that  you  must  by  no  means 
"let  on"  to  her  your  intention  of  carrying 
home  in  it  Mrs  M'Neill's  grain  of  tea ;  or  to 
be  called  upon  to  choose  between  the  company 
of  Neil  M'Neill  and  Hugh  O'Farrell  on  the 
way  home  from  the  fair,  because  neither  of 
them,  as  the  saying  is,  would  look  the  same 
side  of  the  road  as  the  other.  Such  obliga- 
tions lay  stumbling-blocks  in  our  daily  path, 
and  nip  growths  of  good  fellowship,  and  are 
generally  embarrassing  and  vexatious.  How- 
ever, Meenaclure  had  to  put  up  with  this  state 
of  things  for  so  many  a  long  day  that  people 
learned  to  include  it  unprotestingly  among 
their  necessary  evils. 

Under  these  circumstances,  it  was  of  course 
only  in  the  nature  of  things  that  the  little 
M'Neills  and  O'Farrells,  the  smallest  of  whom 
had  not  been  born  at  the  time  of  the  quarrel, 
should  always  put  out  their  tongues  at  one 
another  whenever  they   met.      They   regarded 


172     A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

the  salutation,  indeed,  as  a  sort  of  ceremonial 
observance,  which  could  not  be  omitted  with- 
out a  sense  of  indecorum.  Thus,  one  inclement 
autumn,  when  Patrick  O'Farrell  was  no  longer 
a  hobbledehoy,  but  "as  big  a  man  as  you'd 
meet  goin'  most  roads,"  he  went  off  to  a  rabble, 
that  is,  a  hiring-fair,  at  Letterkenny,  and  took 
service  for  six  months  with  a  farmer  away  at 
Raphoe.  On  the  day  that  he  left  Meenaclure, 
he  happened,  just  as  he  was  setting  out,  to 
meet  Molly  M'Neill,  who  had  by  this  time 
grown  into  "  a  tall  slip  of  a  girl  going  on  for 
sixteen,"  and  they  duly  exchanged  the 
customary  greeting,  Pat  getting  the  better  of 
her  by  at  least  half-an-inch  of  insult.  But 
when  he  returned  on  a  soft  April  evening,  it 
chanced  again  that  one  of  the  first  persons  he 
fell  in  with  was  Molly.  She  was  coming  along 
between  the  newly-clad  hedges  of  a  narrow 
lane,  and  when  he  caught  sight  of  her  first  he 
mistook  her  for  his  cousin,  Norah  O'Farrell, 
she  looked  so  much  taller  than  his  recollec- 
tions. But,  on  perceiving  his  error,  he  merely 
gave  up  his  intention  of  saying,  "  Well,  Norah, 
and  how's  yourself  this  great  while?"  and 
slunk  past  without  making  any  demonstration 
whatever.     Molly  would    hardly   have    noticed 


M'NE  ILLS'    TIGER-SHEEP        173 

it,  indeed,  as  when  she  saw  him  coming  she 
began  to  minutely  examine  the  buds  on  the 
thorn-bushes,  and  did  not  lift  an  eyelash  while 
they  were  passing.  Yet,  as  they  went  their 
several  ways,  Pat  felt  that  he  had  somehow 
shirked  a  duty ;  and  Molly,  for  her  part,  could 
not  shake  off  a  sense  of  having  failed  in  loyalty 
to  her  family  until  she  had  relieved  her  con- 
science by  announcing  at  home  that  she  was 
"just  after  meetin'  that  great  «^/j/-lookin' 
gomeral,  Pat  O'Farrell,  slingein'  down  the 
road  below  Widdy  Byrne's." 

The  year  which  followed  this  spring  was 
one  of  bad  seasons  and  hard  fare  at  Meenaclure, 
and  towards  the  end  of  it  Pat  O'Farrell  came 
reluctantly  to  perceive  that  he  could  best 
mend  his  own  and  his  family's  tattered  fortunes 
by  emigrating  to  the  States.  His  resolve, 
though  regretted  by  all  his  neighbours,  except 
of  course  the  M'Neills,  was  considered  sensible 
enough ;  and  at  the  "  convoy  "  which  assembled 
according  to  custom  to  see  him  off  on  his 
long  journey  the  general  purport  of  conversa- 
tion was  to  the  effect  that,  bedad,  everybody  'd 
be  missing  poor  Pat,  but  sure  himself  was 
the  fine  clever  boy  wouldn't  be  any  time 
gettin'    together    the    price   of    a    little    place 


174    A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

back  again  in  the  ould  country.  The  M'Neills 
alone  were  of  the  opinion,  expressed  by 
Neil's  mother,  that  "the  only  pity  was  the 
rest  of  the  pack  weren't  goin'  ilong  wid  Pat ; 
unless,  like  enough,  they'd  be  more  than  the 
people  out  in  those  parts  could  put  up  wid 
all  at  onst,  the  way  they'd  be  landin'  them 
back  on  us  like  a  bundle  of  ould  rubbish 
washin'  up  agin  wid  the  tide." 

But  surprise  was  the  universal  feeling  when, 
about  six  months  later,  it  became  known  that 
Neil  M'Neill's  eldest  child  Molly  had  also 
made  up  her  mind  to  cross  over  the  water. 
Her  own  family  were  foremost  among  the 
wonderers ;  for  Molly  had  always  been  con- 
sidered rather  excessively  timid  and  quiet — 
certainly  the  very  last  girl  in  the  parish  whom 
one  would  have  thought  likely  to  make  such 
a  venture.  They  half  believed  that  when  it 
came  to  the  point,  "sorra  a  fut  of  her 
would  go " ;  and  they  much  more  than  half 
hoped  so,  notwithstanding  that  their  rent 
had  fallen  into  alarming  arrears,  and  none  of 
her  brethren  were  old  enough  to  help.  Molly, 
however,  actually  went,  amid  lamentations 
and  forebodings,  both  of  her  own  and  other 
people's,    all     alike     unavailing    to    stop    her. 


M'NEILLS'    TIGER-SHEEP        175 

Mrs  Timothy  O'Farrell  said  she  'd  be  long  sorry 
to  have  a  daughter  of  hers  streeling  off  to  the 
ends  of  the  earth.  And  I  think  that  Molly's 
mother  was  long  sorry,  poor  soul,  through 
many  a  lonesome  day  and  anxious  night. 

After  these  two  departures,  things  at  Meena- 
clure  took  their  wonted  course,  a  little  more 
sadly  and  dully  perhaps  than  heretofore. 
Communications  from  abroad  came  rarely  and 
scantily,  for  neither  of  the  absentees  had  much 
scholarship.  Their  sheep-herding  summers  had 
greatly  curtailed  that,  and  it  would  have  been 
difficult  to  say  whether  Pat's  or  Molly's  scrawls 
were  the  briefer  or  obscurer.  But  not  long 
after  Molly  M'Neill  had  gone,  one  of  Pat 
O'Farrell's  letters  contained  an  important  piece 
of  news — nothing  less  than  that  he  was  "just 
about  gettin'  married."  He  did  not  go  into 
particulars  about  the  match,  merely  describing 
the  future  Mrs  Pat  as  the  "best  little  girl  in 
or  out  of  Ireland,"  and  opining  that  they 
mightn't  do  too  badly.  His  family  were  not 
overjoyed  at  the  event,  which  might  be  con- 
sidered to  presage  a  falling  off  in  remittances ; 
and  his  mother  was  much  cast  down  thereby, 
her  thoughts  going  to  the  tune  of  "  my  son 
is   my   son   till   he   gets   him    a    wife."       Still, 


176     A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

she  was  not  so  dispirited  as  to  be  past  find- 
ing some  solace  in  an  innuendo ;  and  she 
almost  certainly  designed  one  when  she  took 
occasion  to  remark  just  outside  the  chapel 
door,  where  she  had  been  telling  the  neigh- 
bours her  news :  "  But  ah,  sure,  I  don't  mind 
so  long  as  he  hasn't  took  up  wid  one  of  them 
black-headed  girls  I  never  can  abide  the  looks 
of.  And  'deed  now  there's  no  fear  of  that. 
Pat's  just  the  same  notion  as  myself,  I  know 
very  well."  For  Mrs  Neil  M'Neill  was  stand- 
ing well  within  earshot,  and,  as  everybody 
remembered,  "there  wasn't  a  fair  hair  on  the 
head  of  e'er  a  one  of  her  childer."  However, 
Mrs  Neil  proved  equal  to  the  emergency, 
and  remarked,  addressing  Katty  Byrne,  that 
"  It  was  rael  queer  the  sort  of  omadhawns 
she'd  heard  tell  of  some  girls,  who,  belike, 
knew  no  better,  bein'  content  to  take  great 
lumberin'  louts  of  fellers,  wid  the  ugly-coloured 
hair  on  their  heads  like  nothin'  in  the  world 
except  a  bit  of  new  thatch  before  it  would 
be  combed  straight" 

She  spoke  without  any  presentiment  that 
she  would  soon  have  to  go  through  much  the 
same  experience  as  old  Mrs  O'Farrell ;  but 
so   it  was.      For  a  week  or  two  later  came  a 


M'NEILLS'    TIGER-SHEEP        177 

letter  from  Molly  stating  that  she  was  "just 
after  gettin'  married."  Her  husband,  who  she 
said  was  earning  grand  wages,  bore  the  ob- 
noxious name  of  O'Farrell,  but  there  was 
nothing  strange  in  the  coincidence,  as  the 
district  about  Meenaclure  abounds  in  Farrells 
and  Neills,  with  and  without  prefixes  of  O 
and  Mac ;  and  it  seemed  only  natural  to  sup- 
pose a  similar  state  of  things  in  New  York. 
Nobody  could  deny  that  there  were  plenty 
of  O'Farrells  very  dacint  people.  So  Molly's 
mother  mourned  in  private  over  an  event 
which  seemed  to  set  a  seal  upon  the  separa- 
tion between  her  daughter  and  herself;  and 
in  public  was  well  pleased  and  very  proud, 
laying  great  stress  upon  the  fact  that  Molly 
had  sent  the  money-order  just  as  usual, — 
"Sorra  a  fear  of  little  Molly  forgettin'  the 
ould  people  at  all," — and  serenely  scorning 
Mesdames  O'Farrell's  opinion  that  "when  a 
girl  had  to  thravel  off  that  far  after  a 
husband,  it  was  the  quare  crooked  stick  of  a 
one  she'd  be  apt  to  pick  up." 

After  this  Meenaclure  received  no  very 
thrilling  foreign  news  for  about  a  twelve- 
month. Then  one  fine  Sunday,  the  Widdy 
O'Farrell  was  to  be  seen  sailing  along  Mass- 

M 


178    A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

wards,  with  her  head  held  extremely  high  in 
its  stiff-frilled  cap  and  dark  blue  hood,  and 
with  a  swinging  sweep  of  her  black  homespun 
skirt,  which  betrayed  an  exultant  stride.  All 
her  family,  indeed,  wore  a  somewhat  elated 
and  consequential  air,  which  most  of  her 
neighbours  allowed  to  be  justifiable  when  she 
explained  that  she  had  become  the  happy 
grandmother  of  her  Pat's  fine  young  son :  the 
letter  with  the  announcement  had  come  last 
night.  This  was  indeed  promotion,  for  her 
son  Tim's  children  were  all  girls.  With  the 
congratulations  upon  so  auspicious  an  event 
even  old  Mrs  M'Neill  could  mingle  only  sub- 
dued murmurs  about  brats  taking  after  their 
fathers  that  weren't  good  for  much,  the  dear 
knows.  However,  she  had  not  long  to  wait  for 
as  good  or  better  a  right  to  strut  chin  in  air, 
since  it  was  with  a  great-grandmother's  dignity 
that  a  few  days  later  she  could  inform  every- 
body of  the  arrival  of  Molly's  boy.  She  would, 
I  believe,  have  found  it  very  hard  to  forgive 
Molly  if  the  child  had  been  merely  a  daughter. 
This  rivalry,  as  it  were,  between  the 
estranged  families  in  the  matter  of  news  from 
their  non-resident  members  recurred  with  the 
same    equipoised     result    on    more    than    one 


M'N  BILLS'    TIGER-SHEEP        179 

similar  occasion,  and  was  extended  even  to 
less  happy  events.  For  instance,  one  time 
when  Pat  wrote  in  great  distraction,  and  a 
wilder  scrawl  than  usual,  that  the  "three 
childer  was  dreadful  bad  wid  the  mumps,  he 
doubted  would  they  get  over  it,"  the  next  mail 
brought  just  such  a  report  from  Molly ;  which 
was  rather  awkward  for  her  mother  and  grand- 
mother, who  had  been  going  about  passing 
the  remark  that  "when  childer  got  proper 
mindin'  they  never  took  anythin'  of  the  sort" 
At  length,  however,  when  perhaps  half-a- 
dozen  years  had  gone  by,  the  balance  of 
good  fortune  dipped  decidedly  towards  the 
O'Farrells.  One  autumn  morning  a  letter 
came  from  Pat  to  say  that  he  and  his  family 
were  coming  home.  He  had  saved  up  a  tidy 
little  bit  of  money,  and  meant  to  try  could 
he  settle  himself  on  a  dacint  little  bit  of 
land  ;  at  any  rate  he  would  get  a  sight  of  the 
ould  place  and  the  ould  people.  Great  was 
the  rejoicing  of  the  O'Farrells.  Whereas  for 
the  M'Neills  at  this  time  the  meagre  mail- 
bags  contained  no  foreign  letter,  no  letter  at 
all,  bad  or  good,  let  alone  one  fraught  with 
such  grand  news.  Molly's  mother,  it  is  true, 
dreamt    two    nights    running    that    Molly    had 


i8o    A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

come  home ;  but  dreams  are  a  sorry  substi- 
tute for  a  letter,  especially  when  everybody 
knows,  and  some  people  remind  you,  that 
they  always  go  by  contraries.  So  Mrs  Neil 
fretted  and  foreboded,  and  had  not  the  heart 
to  be  sarcastic,  no  matter  how  arrogantly  the 
O'Farrells  might  comport  themselves. 

Then  the  autumn  days  shrivelled  and 
shrank,  and  one  morning  in  late  November 
the  word  went  round  Meenaclure  that  the 
Kaley  that  evening  would  be  up  at  Fergus 
the  weaver's.  This  meeting-place  was  always 
popular,  Fergus  being  a  well-liked  man,  with 
a  wide  space  round  his  hearth.  And  this 
night's  conversazione  promised  to  be  parti- 
cularly enjoyable,  as  it  had  leaked  out  that 
Dan  Farrell  and  Mrs  Keogh  and  Dinny 
O'Neill  were  concerned  in  what  is  at  Meena- 
clure technically  termed  "a  join,"  for  the 
purpose  of  treating  the  kaleying  company  to 
cups  of  tea.  In  fact,  the  materials  for  that 
refreshment,  done  up  in  familiar  purple  paper 
parcels,  lying  on  the  window-seat,  were  obvious 
to  everybody  who  came  into  the  room,  though 
to  have  seemed  aware  of  them  would  have 
been  a  grave  breach  of  manners.  When  all 
the  company  were  mustered,  and  the  fire  was 


M'N  KILLS'    TIGER-SHEEP        i8i 

burning  its  brightest,  Fergus  might  well  look 
round  his  house  with  satisfaction,  for  so  large 
an  assembly  seldom  came  together,  and  uni- 
versal harmony  seemed  to  prevail.  This  was 
not  disturbed  by  the  fact  that  several  both  of 
the  Timothy  O'Farrells  and  Neil  M'Neills  were 
present,  as  by  this  time  everybody  thoroughly 
understood  the  situation,  and  the  neighbours 
arranged  themselves  as  a  matter  of  course 
in  ways  which  precluded  any  awkward  juxta- 
positions of  persons  "  who  weren't  spakin'." 

It  was  a  showery  evening,  with  a  wafting 
to  and  fro  of  wide  gusts,  which  made  the 
Widdy  O'Farrell  wonder  more  than  once  as 
she  sat  on  the  form  by  the  hearth,  with  the 
Widdy  Byrne  interposed  buffer-wise  between 
her  and  old  Joe  M'Neill.  What  she  wondered 
was,  whether  her  poor  Pat  might  be  apt  to 
be  crossin'  over  the  say  on  such  an  ugly  wild 
night.  Just  as  Mrs  Keogh,  with  an  eye  on 
the  lid-bobbing  kettle,  was  about  to  ask  Fergus 
if  he  might  happen  to  have  e'er  a  drop  of 
hot  water  he  could  spare  her — that  being  the 
orthodox  preface  to  tea-making  on  the  occasion 
of  a  join  —  the  house  -  door  rattled  violently, 
and  opened  with  a  fling.  As  nobody  appeared 
at  it,  this  was  supposed  to  be  simply  the  wind's 


i82     A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

freak,  and  Fergus  said  to  Mick  M'Murdo,  who 
sat  next  to  it,  "  Musha,  lad,  be  givin'  it  a  clap 
to  wid  your  fut"  But  at  that  instant  a  voice 
was  heard  close  outside,  calling  as  if  to  another 
person  a  little  farther  off,  "  Molly,  Molly,  come 
along  wid  you  ;  they  're  all  here  right  enough,  and 
I  wouldn't  be  keepin'  the  door  open  on  them." 
Whereupon  there  was  a  quick  patter  of  approach- 
ing feet,  followed  by  the  entrance  of  two  bundle- 
bearing  figures.  As  they  advanced  into  the 
flickering  light,  it  showed  that  the  figures  were 
a  man  and  a  woman,  and  the  bundles  children ; 
and  in  another  moment  there  rose  up  recognis- 
ing shrieks  and  shouts  of  "  Pat "  and  "  Molly," 
and  then  everybody  rushed  together  tumult- 
uously  across  a  chasm  of  half-a-dozen  years. 

"  They  tould  us  below  at  Widdy  Byrne's  that 
we  'd  find  yous  all  up  here,"  said  Pat  O'Farrell, 
"  so  we  left  the  baby  there,  and  stepped  along. 
Och,  mother,  it 's  younger  you  're  grown  instead 
of  oulder,  and  that 's  a  fac' " 

"And  where 's  the  wife,  Paudyeen  agra?" 
said  Pat's  mother ;  "  or  maybe  she  sted  below 
wid  the  child?" 

"And  where 's  himself,  Molly  jewel?"  said 
Molly's  mother.  "Sure  you  didn't  come  your 
lone?" 


M'NEILLS'    TIGER-SHEEP        18-3 

"Why,  here  he  is,"  said  Molly.  "Pat,  man, 
wasn't  you   spakin'  to  me  mother?" 

"  Och,  whethen  now,  and  is  it  Pat  O'Farrell  ?  " 
his  mother-in-law  said  with  a  half-strangled  gasp. 

"  And  who  else  would  it  be  at  all  at  all, 
only  Pat  ? "  said  Molly,  as  if  propounding  an 
unanswerable  argument. 

"  Mercy  be  among  us  all — and  you  niver  let 
on — och,  you  rogue  of  the  world — you  niver  let 
on.  Patsy  avic,  it  was  little  Molly  M'Neill  you  'd 
took  up  wid  all  the  while,"  said  his  mother. 

"  Sure  I  was  writin'  to  you  all  about  her 
times  and  agin,"  Pat  averred  stoutly. 

Perhaps  things  might  have  turned  out 
differently  if  people  had  not  been  delighted 
and  taken  by  surprise.  But  as  it  was,  how 
could  a  feud  be  conducted  with  any  propriety 
when  Mrs  Neil  had  unprotestingly  been  hugged 
by  Pat  O'Farrell,  and  when  old  Joe  M'Neill  and 
his  wife  and  daughter  were  already  worship- 
ping a  very  fat  small  two-year-old  girl,  who 
unmistakably  featured  all  the  O'Farrells  that 
ever  walked?     The  thing  was  impossible. 

For  one  moment,  indeed,  an  unhappy 
resurrection  seemed  to  be  threatened.  It  was 
when  everybody  had  got  into  a  circle  round 
the  hearth,  in  expectation  of  the  cups  of  tea, 


i84    A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

which  were  beginning  to  clatter  in  the  back- 
ground, and  when  Pat  O'Farrell,  who  was 
talking  over  old  times  with  Neil  M'Neill, 
suddenly  gave  his  father-in-law  a  great  thump 
on  the  back,  exclaiming  with  a  chuckle,  "  Och, 
man,  and  do  you  remimber  your  ould  sheep 
that  we  got  in  the  oats,  and  gave  a  coloured 
wash  to?  Faix,  but  she  was  the  comical 
objec'  —  'the  tiger-sheep,'  the  childer  used  to 
call  her."  Whereupon  all  the  rest  looked  at 
one  another  with  dismayed  countenances,  as  if 
they  had  caught  sight  of  something  uncanny. 
But  their  alarm  was  needless.  For  Neil 
returned  Pat's  thump  promptly  with  interest, 
and  replied,  "  Haw,  haw,  haw !  Bedad,  and 
I  do  remimber  her  right  well.  Och  now,  man 
alive,  I  '11  bet  you  me  best  brogues  that  wid 
all  you  've  been  behouldin'  out  there  in  the 
States  you  niver  set  eyes  on  e'er  a  baste  'd 
aquil  her  for  quareness  —  haw,  haw,  haw ! " 
And  the  whole  company  took  up  the  chorus, 
as  if  minded  to  make  up  on  the  spot  all 
arrears  of  laughter  owing  on  that  long  un- 
appreciated joke.  Amid  the  sound  of  which 
I  have  reason  to  believe  that  there  fled  away 
from  Meenaclure  for  ever  the  last  haunting 
phantasm  of  the  unchancy  tiger-sheep. 


THE  SNAKES   AND   NORAH 


THE  SNAKES  AND  NORAH 

THE  Kennys'  little  farmstead  was  a  some- 
what amphibious  one,  occupying  the 
southern  end  of  the  isthmus  which  keeps 
the  Atlantic  foam  from  riding  into  Lough 
Fintragh,  a  small,  dark-watered  nook  niched 
in  the  shadow  of  steep  mountain  slopes. 
Another  murkier  shadow  brooded  over  it  in 
the  opinion  of  the  Kennys,  who,  like  most 
of  their  neighbours,  at  least  half  -  believed 
that  its  recesses  harboured  a  monstrous  in- 
dweller.  Their  thin  white  house  stood  front- 
ing the  seashore,  with  a  narrow  grazing  strip 
behind,  while  their  yard  and  sheds  lay  along 
the  dwindling  isthmus,  which  becomes  a  mere 
reef-like  bar  of  boulders  and  shingle  before 
it  again  touches  the  mainland.  In  calm 
weather  Joe  Kenny  might  see  his  unimposing 
ricks  reflected  from  ridge  to  butt,  with  gleams 
of  ochre  and  amber  and  gold  in  both  salt 
and  fresh  water ;  but  in  stormy  times,  which 
came  oftener,  it  might  befall  him  to  witness 
a    less    pleasing   spectacle    of   hay-wisps    and 

straw-stooks  strewn  bodily,  floating  and  soak- 
187 


i88    A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

ing  on  the  wasteful  waves.  So  he  was  not 
surprised  to  find  that  this  had  happened 
when  he  walked  out  one  December  morning 
after  a  wild  night  whose  blustering  had 
mingled  menace  with  his  dreams.  Despite 
its  close-meshed  roping  and  thick  fringe  of 
dangling  stone  weights,  the  more  exposed 
haystack  had  been  seriously  wrecked  and 
pillaged.  "Och,  bad  cess  to  the  ould  win' 
and  its  whillaballoos ! "  said  Joe,  as  he  sur- 
veyed the  distorted  outlines,  and  made  a 
rueful  estimate  of  the  damage.  "If  I  got 
the  chance  to  slit  its  bastely  bellows  for  it, 
'twould  be  apt  to  keep  its  huffin'  and  puflfin' 
quiet  for  one  while  —  it  would  so."  This 
was  not,  however,  the  limit  of  his  losses. 
Presently  he  stood  looking  vexedly  over  the 
door  of  a  half-roofed  shed,  which  contained  a 
good  deal  of  sea-water  and  weed ;  also  a 
very  small  red  calf,  and  a  large  jelly-fish. 
The  calf  was  drowned  dead,  but  the  jelly- 
fish seemingly  lived  as  much  as  usual. 
"Eyah,  get  out  wid  you,  you  unnathural- 
lookin'  blob  of  a  baste ! "  said  Joe,  giving 
this  unprofitable  addition  to  his  stock  a 
contumelious  flick  with  his  blackthorn. 
"There's   another  good    fifteen    shillin's    gone 


THE    SNAKES    AND    NORAH      189 

on  me.  I  'd  never  ha'  thought  'twould  ha' 
tuk  and  slopped  over  the  wall  that  way. 
Sorra  the  bit  of  a  Christmas  box  I  '11  be 
able  to  conthrive  her  this  year,  and  that's 
a  fac' ;  and  to-morra  fair  day  and  all — weary 
on  it !  " 

"  Her  "  was  Rose  O'Meara,  Joe's  sweetheart ; 
and  since  he  had  long  looked  forward  to  the 
opportunity  of  the  Christmas  gift  as  likely 
to  bring  about  a  favourable  crisis  in  his 
courtship,  the  falling  through  of  his  plan 
made  him  feel  dejectedly  out  of  humour,  in 
which  unenjoyable  mood  he  strolled  on  to- 
wards the  pigstye.  Traces  of  the  spent 
storm  lay  all  around  him.  The  tide  had 
receded  some  way,  but  the  waves  were  fast  by, 
still  hissing  and  seething,  and  flinging  them- 
selves down  with  hollow  booms  and  thuds. 
They  had  evidently  been  beating  high  against 
the  yard-wall,  for  all  along  it  they  had  left 
great  masses  of  brown  sea-wrack  tossed  in 
bales  and  clumps,  as  if  loaded  out  of  a  cart  ; 
and  these  were  connected  by  trails  of  green 
and  black  weed,  skeleton  branches,  shells, 
clotted  froth,  driftwood,  and  other  debris,  all 
in  an  indescribable  tangle.  As  Joe  stumped 
through  it,  he  trucks  his  foot  sharply  against 


I90    A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

something  hard,  and  nearly  tripped  up.  When 
he  recovered  his  balance,  he  saw  that  the 
obstruction  was  not  the  boulder  which  he 
had  already  execrated  in  haste.  It  was  a 
wooden  box.  In  much  excitement  Joe 
picked  it  up,  and  set  it  on  the  top  of  the 
wall  for  exacter  scrutiny.  The  tides  were 
constantly  sweeping  in  with  miscellaneous 
fringes  on  the  Kennys'  demesne,  but  seldom 
did  they  bring  anything  that  might  not  be 
justly  termed  "quare  ould  rubbish."  During 
all  the  course  of  Joe's  life,  and  he  was  not 
in  his  first  youth,  no  waif  had  been  washed 
up  so  promising  in  appearance  as  this  box. 
About  ten  inches  square  it  was,  and  made 
of  a  fine  grained  dark  wood,  which  seemed 
to  have  been  very  highly  polished.  The 
corners  were  clamped  with  bronze-like  metal, 
elaborately  wrought,  and  plates  of  the  same 
inlaid  the  keyhole  and  hinges.  So  strong 
was  the  lock,  that  when  he  tried  to  wrench 
off  the  lid  he  seemed  to  have  a  solid  block 
in  his  hands,  and  it  shut  so  tightly  that 
the  lines  of  juncture  were  almost  invisible. 
Its  weight  was  considerable  enough  to  in- 
crease his  conviction  that  it  held  something 
very  precious. 


THE    SNAKES    AND    NORAH      191 

Joe's  first  impulse  was  to  rush  home  with 
his  prize,  exhibit  and  examine  it.  Imme- 
diately afterwards,  however,  it  flashed  across 
him  like  an  inspiration  that  here  was  Rose's 
Christmas  box ;  and  upon  this  followed  a 
more  leisurely  resolve  to  keep  it  a  secret 
until  he  should  present  her  with  it  intact 
on  Christmas  morning,  still  distant  three 
whole  days.  This  course  would  cost  him 
the  repression  of  much  impatient  curiosity, 
but  it  was  recommended  to  him  by  a  sense 
that  it  would  enhance  the  value  of  the  gift. 
He  would  be  making  over  to  Rose  all  the 
vague  and  wonderful  possibilities  of  the 
treasure-trove,  which  in  his  imagination  were 
more  splendid  than  any  better-defined  object, 
as  they  loomed  through  a  haze  of  unseen 
gold  and  jewels.  Disappointment  had  scanty 
room  among  his  forecasts.  "  Sure,  I  'd  a 
right  to  give  it  to  her  just  the  way  it  is, 
wid  anythin'  at  all  inside  it,  for  amn't  I 
axin'  her  to  take  meself  in  a  manner  like 
that,  whether  good,  bad,  or  indiffrint  comes 
of  it? — on'y  it's  scarce  as  apt,  worse  luck,  to 
be  any  great  things  as  the  full  of  a  grand 
lookin'  box  is.  But  she  might  understand 
'twas  as    much  as   to  say   I  'd    be   wishful    she 


192     A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

had  every  chance  of  the  best  that  I  could  git 
for  her,  the  crathur,  if  it  was  all  the  gold  and 
silver  and  diamonds  that  ever  were  dhrownded 
under  the  say-wather,  and  'd  never  think  to 
be  lookin'  to  reckon  them,  no  more  than 
if  they  were  so  many  handfuls  of  ould 
pebbles  off  of  the  strand."  Thus  reflected 
Joe,  who  had  a  vein  of  sentiment,  which 
sometimes  outran  his  powers  of  expression. 
And  thereupon,  leaving  the  box  atop  of 
the  wall,  he  went  to  look  after  the  pigs.  He 
found  them  all  surviving,  though  the  storm 
had  caused  some  dilapidations  in  their  abode, 
which  obliged  him  to  do  a  little  rough 
carpentry,  and  kept  him  hammering  and 
thumping  for  several  minutes.  And  when 
he  returned  to  the  place  where  he  had  left 
the  box,  the  box  was  gone. 

He  searched  wildly  for  it  among  the 
litter  on  both  sides  of  the  wall,  and  nowhere 
could  it  be  seen.  Yet  at  that  hour  what 
man  or  mortal  was  there  abroad  to  have 
stirred  it?  Then  he  thought  that  the  weeds 
looked  wetter  than  they  had  been,  and  he 
said  to  himself  that  "one  of  them  waves 
must  ha'  riz  up  permiscuous  and  swep'  it 
off  in   a    flurry   while   his    back   was   turned ; 


THE    SNAKES    AND    NORAH      193 

and  a  fine  gomeral  he  'd  been  to  go  lave  it 
widin  raich  of  such  a  thing  happenin'  it." 
So  as  no  more  satisfactory  explanation  was 
forthcoming,  he  turned  homeward,  empty- 
handed  and  crestfallen.  But  before  he  had 
taken  many  steps,  he  saw  sitting  under  the  lee 
of  the  yard-wall  Tom  O'Meara,  Rose's  brother, 
who  was  generally  recognised  to  be  courting 
Mary  Kenny,  Joe's  youngest  sister.  The 
O'Mearas  lived  a  good  step  beyond  the  other 
end  of  the  isthmus,  and  Joe  had  begun  to 
speculate  what  so  early  a  visit  might  signify, 
when  the  greater  wonder  abruptly  swallowed 
the  less  as  he  became  aware  that  Tom  had 
the   twice-lost   box   in   his   hands. 

"  Look-a,  Joe,  at  what  I  'm  after  findin'," 
he  called  jubilantly. 

"  Findin'  ?  Musha  moyah !  that 's  fine 
talkin',"  said  Joe.  "And  where  at  all  did 
you  find  it,  then  ?  " 

"Where  it  was  to  be  had,"  said  Tom, 
promptly  adjusting  his  tone  to  Joe's,  which 
was  offensive. 

"Then  it's  sitting  atop  of  our  wall  there 
it  was,"  said  Joe.  "  Whethen,  now,  some 
people  has  little  enough  to  do  that  they  can't 
keep    their    hands     off    meddlin'    wid    things 


194    A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

they  find  sittin'  on  other  people's  yard- 
walls." 

"And  suppose  it  was  sittin'  on  anybody's 
ould  wall,"  said  Tom,  "what  else  except  a 
one  of  them  rowlin'  waves  set  it  sittin'  there 
wid  itself,  and  it  all  dhreepin'  wet  out  of  the 
say?  Be  the  same  token  it's  quare  if  one 
person  hasn't  got  as  good  a  right  to  be 
liftin*  it  off  as  another.  Troth  and  bedad, 
I'd  somethin'  betther  to  do  than  to  be 
standin'  star-gazin'  at  it  all  day,  waitin'  to 
ax  lave  of  the  likes  of  yous," 

"I'll  soon  show  you  the  sort  of  rowlin' 
wave  there  was,  me  man,  if  you  don't  throuble 
yourself  to  be  handin'  it  over  out  of  that, 
and  I  after  pickin'  it  up  this  half-hour  ago," 
said  Joe,  with  furious  irony. 

"  Come  on  wid  you,  come  on ! "  Tom 
shouted,  jumping  to  his  feet  with  a  general 
flourish  of  defiance.  At  this  point  the  dispute 
bade  fair  to  become  an  argument  without 
words,  and  would  probably  have  done  so  had 
it  not  been  that  the  two  young  men  were 
the  brothers  of  their  sisters.  As  it  was,  a 
sort  of  Roman-Sabine  complication  fettered 
and  handcuffed  them,  "Divil  a  thing  else  I 
was    intendin'    to    do    wid    it,    but    bring    it 


THE    SNAKES    AND    NORAH      195 

straight  ways  in  to  your  sister  Mary,"  said 
Tom,  "that  you  need  go  for  to  be  risin'  rows 
about  the  matter." 

"It's  for  Rose's  Christmas  box;  that's  what 
I  think  bad  of,"  said  Joe. 

"  Let 's  halve  it  between  the  two  of  them, 
then,  whatever  it  is,"  said  Tom,  feeling  that 
a  compromise  was  the  utmost  he  could  reason- 
ably expect  from  circumstances. 

And  so  it  was  arranged,  rather  weakly  on 
Joe's  part,  he  being  the  better  man  of  the  two, 
and  well  within  his  rights,  if  he  had  chosen 
to  claim  the  box  unconditionally.  The  joint 
presentation  should  take  place,  they  agreed,  on 
Christmas  Eve,  the  next  day  but  one,  when 
Rose  O'Meara  would  be  visiting  the  Kennys  ; 
and  then  Tom  departed  whistling,  with  the 
pick  he  had  come  to  borrow  the  loan  of,  while 
Joe  consoled  himself  as  best  he  could  for  this 
arbitrary  subtraction  of  more  than  half  the 
pleasure  and  romance  from  his  morning's 
find. 

Late  on  Christmas  Eve,  when  the  Kennys' 
kitchen  was  full  of  glancing  firelight,  and  the 
widow  Kenny,  with  her  son  and  daughters 
and  her  guests,  Tom  and  Rose  O'Meara,  had 
all   had  their  tea,  Joe  and  Tom  were  seen  to 


196     A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

often  whisper  and  nudge  one  another,  until  at 
last  Joe  got  up  and  produced  the  box  from 
its  secret  hiding-place.  But  Tom  hastened  to 
forestall  him  as  spokesman,  placing  consider- 
able confidence  in  his  own  perspicacity  and 
grace  of  diction.     He  said — 

"See  you  here,  Mary  and  Rose.  This  con- 
sarn's  a  prisint  the  two  of  us  is  after  gettin' 
the  two  of  yous — I  mane  it  was  Joe  found  it 
aquilly  the  same  as  me,  that  picked  it  up 
somethin'  later.  And  it 's  he 's  givin'  the  whole 
of  his  half  of  the  whole  of  it  to  Rose ;  but 
he 's  nothin'  to  say  to  the  rest  of  it ;  and  it 's 
meself  that 's  givin'  Mary  the  half  of  the  whole 
of  the  half — och  no,  botheration !  it 's  the 
whole  of  the — it's  the  other  whole  half  of  it — " 

"  You  've  got  it  this  time,"  Joe  remarked  in 
a  sarcastic  aside. 

"  — I  'm  givin'  Mary.  So  that 's  the  way  of 
it,  and  when  we've  got  the  lid  prized  off  for 
yous,  you'll  just  have  to  regulate  it  between 
yous,  accordin'  to  what  there  is  inside," 

"And  if  it's  all  the  gold  and  diamonds  in 
the  riches  of  the  world,"  said  Joe,  "you're 
kindly  welcome  to  every  grain  of  it.  Rose 
jewel — ay,  bedad,  are  you." 

"To    the    one    half  of  it,"    corrected   Tom, 


THE    SNAKES    AND    NORAH      197 

with  emphasis.  But  his  sister  tapped  him 
with  the  pot-stick,  and  said,  "Whisht,  you  big 
omadhawn,  whisht." 

"  It 's  a  pity  of  such  a  thing  to  be  knockin' 
about  and  goin'  to  loss,"  said  Mary,  rubbin' 
her  finger  on  the  embossed  metal-work ;  "  and 
I  wonder  what's  gone  wid  whatever  crathur 
owned  it.  Under  the  salt  say  he's  very  apt 
to  be  lying  this  night — the  Lord  be  good  to 
him ! "  The  rustle  of  the  waves  climbing  up 
the  shingle  outside  seemed  to  swell  louder 
as  she  spoke. 

"For  anythin'  we  can  tell,  he  might  be 
takin'  a  look  in  at  us  through  the  windy 
there  this  minute  to  see  what  we're  doin'  wid 
it,"  said  Joe. 

Everybody's  eyes  turned  towards  the  dark 
little  square  of  the  window,  and  Mary  left  off 
handling  the  box  as  suddenly  as  if  it  had 
become  red-hot. 

"  Oh,  blathers ! "  said  Tom.  "  Just  raich  me 
the  rippin'-chisel  that 's  lyin'  on  the  windy-stool, 
Norah,  and  we'll  soon  thry  what  it  is  at  all." 

Norah,  the  elder  sister,  made  a  very  long 
arm,  and  secured  the  tool  with  as  little 
approximation  as  might  be  to  the  deep-set 
panes.     She  had  neither  sweetheart  nor  Christ- 


198    A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

mas  box,  and  was  disposed   to   take  a  rather 
languid  and  cynical  view  of  affairs. 

"  There  's  apt  not  to  be  any  great  things  in 
it,  I  'm  thinkin*,"  said  the  widow  Kenny  from 
her  elbow-chair  by  the  hearth.  The  truth  was 
that  she  had  been  reflecting  with  some  bitter- 
ness how  not  so  many  years  since  Joe  would 
have  "come  flourishin'  in  to  her  wid  any  ould 
thrifle  of  rubbish  he  might  ha'  picked  up  out- 
side," whereas  now  he  had  kept  this  valuable 
property  silently  in  his  possession  for  three 
days,  for  the  purpose  of  bestowing  it  upon 
the  O'Mearas*  slip  of  a  girl.  Consequently, 
Joe's  mother  held  aloof  from  the  eager  group 
round  the  table,  and  uttered  disparaging  pre- 
dictions of  the  event.  Tom  and  Mary  did 
make  a  prudent  attempt  to  fend  off  their 
collision  with  the  disappointment  which  might 
emerge  from  the  mists  ahead  by  repeating, 
as  the  chisel  wrestled  with  the  stubborn  hasps 
and  springs,  "  Sure,  all  the  while  belike  there 's 
on'y  some  quare  ould  stuff  in  it,  no  good 
to  anybody."  Joe  and  Rose,  on  the  contrary, 
chose  to  run  under  crowded  sail  towards  the 
possible  wreck  of  their  hopes,  and  talked  of 
sovereigns  and  bank-notes  and  jewels  while 
the  lid  creaked  and  resisted. 


THE    SNAKES    AND    NORAH     199 

But  when  at  length  it  yielded  with  a 
final  splinter,  it  disclosed  what  no  one  had 
anticipated — namely,  nothing.  The  box  was 
quite  empty.  Daintily  lined  with  glossy 
satinwood,  as  if  for  the  reception  of  some- 
thing delicate  and  precious,  but  bare  as  the 
palm  of  your  hand.  There  was  not  even  so 
much  vacant  space  as  might  have  been 
expected,  for  the  sides  were  disproportion- 
ately thick.  Very  blank  faces  exchanged 
notes  with  one  another  upon  this  result. 
Almost  any  contents,  however  inappropriate 
and  worthless,  would  have  been  their 
"advantage  to  exclaim  upon,"  and  more 
tolerable  for  that  reason  than  mere  nullity, 
about  which  there  was  little  to  be  said. 
Rose  was  the  first  to  rally  from  the  general 
mortification,  observing  with  forced  cheerful- 
ness that  "sure  'twould  make  an  iligant  sort 
of  workbox,  at  all  ivints,  and  'twas  maybe 
just  as  handy  there  bein'  nothin'  in  it, 
because  'twould  hould  anythin'  you  plased." 
To  which  Mary  rejoined,  dejectedly  refusing 
to  philosophise,  "  Bedad,  then,  you  may 
keep  it  yourself,  girl  alive,  for  the  lid's  every 
atom  all  smashed  into  smithereens." 

The  young  people  were  not,  however,  with 


200    A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

one  exception,  in  the  mood  for  dwelling 
upon  the  dark  side  of  things.  Their  depres- 
sion caused  by  the  collapse  of  the  Christmas 
box  was  superficial,  and  soon  passed  away. 
When  in  course  of  the  evening  the  two 
young  men  went  out  to  feed  the  pigs.  Rose 
and  Mary  accompanied  them  to  the  back 
door,  where  they  all  loitered  so  long  that 
the  patience  waiting  round  the  empty  trough 
must  have  been  sorely  tried.  Sounds  of 
their  talking  and  laughing  came  down  the 
passage  and  were  heard  plainly  in  the 
kitchen,  whence  Mrs  Kenny  had  slipped 
up  her  ladder  stairs  to  say  her  rosary,  so 
that  Norah  was  for  the  time  left  quite 
alone.  She  was  decidedly  out  of  humour, 
albeit  by  no  means  on  account  of  the  others' 
rapid  reverse  of  fortune.  Rather,  we  may 
apprehend,  she  had  viewed  that  incident  as 
a  not  regrettable  check  to  a  tide  of  affairs 
which  was  unduly  sweeping  all  manner  of 
good  luck  her  neighbours'  way,  and  unjustly 
leaving  her  high  and  dry.  This  grudging 
spirit  had  forbidden  her  to  appear  interested 
in  the  examination  of  the  box,  but  now  she 
could  satisfy  without  betraying  her  curiosity. 
As  she   drew   her   fingers   aimlessly  round  its 


THE    SNAKES    AND    NORAH      201 

smooth  inner  surface,  there  was  a  sudden 
snap  and  jerk,  and  out  slid  a  secret  drawer, 
which  had  been  concealed  by  a  false  bottom. 
It  was  filled  with  rose-pink  wadding,  amongst 
which  lay  the  coils  of  a  long  gold  snake 
necklace.  She  lifted  it  out  amazedly,  and 
held  it  up  in  the  firelight,  with  jewelled 
head  gleaming  and  enamelled  scales,  a  far 
finer  piece  of  workmanship  than  she  knew, 
though  the  flash  of  brilliants  and  rubies 
assured  even  her  uninstructed  eyes  that  she 
had  come  on  something  of  much  value. 

While  she  was  still  looking  at  it  she  heard 
steps  returning  up  the  passage,  and  forthwith 
tried  hastily  to  replace  it  in  the  box.  But 
at  a  clumsy  touch  the  drawer  flew  back  into 
its  former  invisibility,  and  her  flurried  fumbling 
failed  to  press  the  lurking  spring.  Then,  as 
the  steps  came  very  near,  she  thrust  her 
ornament  into  her  pocket,  and  moved  away 
from  the  table  on  which  the  box  stood.  In 
doing  so,  she  was  conscious  only  of  a  proud 
perversity  which  made  her  loth  to  be  found 
meddling  with  what  she  sullenly  called  "no 
consarn  of  mine."  Presently,  however,  other 
motives  for  concealment  grew  clearer  and 
stronger.      Of  course,  the   longer   she  retained 


202     A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

it  the  more  difficult  would  the  restoring  of  it 
be.  Her  crossness  made  it  impossible  for  her 
to  imagine  a  joke  as  a  natural  explanation 
of  her  conduct.  Moreover,  a  covetous  wish  to 
keep  the  beautiful  thing  for  its  own  sake 
sprang  up,  and  had  a  swift  growth.  She  said 
to  herself  that  "she  didn't  see  why  she  need 
have  any  call  to  be  givin'  it  up,  after  all. 
Wasn't  she  after  findin'  it  in  the  quare  little 
slitherin'  tray,  and  the  rest  of  them  wid  no 
more  notion  of  it  bein'  there  at  all  than  ould 
Sally  the  goat  had?  It  might  be  lyin'  where 
it  was  till  the  world's  end  on'y  for  her?  And 
sure,  for  the  matter  of  that,  the  ould  box 
itself  was  no  more  a  belongin'  of  the  lads 
to  give  away  than  of  any  other  body  that 
might  ha'  happened  on  it  tossin'  about  the 
shore.  So  if  it  wasn't  theirs  be  rights,  she 
thought  she'd  be  a  fine  fool  to  not  keep 
what  she'd  got."  Sophistical  arguments  such 
as  these  convinced  her  reason  easily  enough, 
but  her  conscience  was  less  amenable  to  them. 
They  were  reinforced  by  some  further  con- 
siderations which  possessed  no  ethical  value 
at  all,  and  which  she  had  the  grace  to  be 
ashamed  of  putting  into  clearly  outlined 
thoughts.     She    allowed   herself  to   have  only 


THE    SNAKES    AND    NORAH     203 

a  vague  sense  of  grievance  at  the  fact  that 
Rose  and  Mary  had  "presents,  and  people  to 
be  makin'  fools  of  them,  and  all  manner," 
whereas  none  of  these  desirable  things  were 
bestowed  on  her.  Yet  it  formed  a  mental 
atmosphere  which  made  the  prospect  of  yield- 
ing up  her  discovery  seem  incongruous  and 
odious,  in  the  same  way  that  a  bitter  wind 
blowing  makes  us  loth  to  throw  open  our 
doors  and  windows. 

"Cock  them  up  to  be  gettin'  everythin',"  she 
said  to  herself,  as  she  sat  in  a  corner  with 
her  hand  in  her  pocket,  and  drew  through 
her  fingers  the  cold,  smooth  coils,  remember- 
ing how  the  gem-encrusted  head  had  blazed 
in  the  firelight.  She  wished  that  she  could 
venture  to  take  it  out  and  proudly  display  it 
as  her  property ;  but  she  was  far  from  daring 
to  do  so.  On  the  contrary,  she  felt  herself 
laden  with  a  guilty  secret,  and  was  presently 
beset  by  all  the  misgivings,  suspicions,  and 
surmises  which  infest  people  who  carry  about 
such  a  burden.  Whenever  anyone  went  near 
the  box  her  heart  thumped  with  terror  lest 
the  drawer  should  be  detected,  and  its  rifled 
condition  somehow  traced  to  her.  Then  she 
trembled  to  think  that  the  lads  perhaps  knew 


204     A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

all  the  time  of  the  necklace's  existence,  and 
were  just  reserving  it  for  a  grand  surprise ;  or 
she  imagined  herself  letting  it  drop  accident- 
ally and  being  unable  to  account  for  her 
possession  of  it.  These  speculations  so  pre- 
occupied her  that  she  was  obliged  to  explain 
her  absent-mindedness  by  declaring  herself 
"  intirely  disthracted  wid  the  toothache " ; 
upon  which  the  condolences  and  sympathy  of 
the  others  aggravated  her  uneasiness  with 
remorseful  gratitude.  Her  conscience  nipped 
her  shrewdly  when  Rose  said,  "  Ah,  the 
crathur,  I  '11  run  over  to-morra  early  and 
bring  you  the  bottle  ould  Matt  Farren  gev 
me  mother;  it's  the  grandest  stuff  at  all  for 
the  toothache," — Rose  whom  she  was  defraud- 
ing of  a  share  in  that  golden  marvel !  At 
length  she  had  resource  to  a  plan  which 
promised  her  temporary  relief  from  urgent 
fears  and  self-reproaches.  This  was  to  hide 
away  the  necklace  in  some  cranny  of  the 
rocks  on  the  shore,  where,  if  it  should  be  re- 
discovered, nothing  would  implicate  her  in  the 
matter.  She  said  to  herself,  indeed,  that  they 
would  have  just  as  much  chance  of  finding 
it  there  as  in  the  mysterious  drawer ;  but 
beneath  that  soothing  reflection   lay   a  resolve 


THE    SNAKES    AND    NORAH      205 

to  minimise  the  chance  by  choosing  the  most 

unlikely    chink    possible.       Since    the    evening 

was  by  this  time  far  spent,  and  the  O'Mearas 

had   already   taken   leave,    she   knew   that   she 

must  hurry  to  execute  her   design  before  Joe 

came    in    from    seeing    after   the   cattle,   when 

the  house  would  be  shut  up.      So  she  slipped 

quietly  out  of  doors. 

It  was  a  dark,  gusty  night,  and   the  waves, 

still    turbulent    after    their    late    uproar,    were 

clattering    noisily    up    the    shingly    ridges    of 

the   beach.       As   Norah   ran   along    she   could 

barely   discern   the   glimmering    of    pale    grey 

stones    and   white   foam-crests.      She   kept   on 

by  the  lough  side  of  the  isthmus,  because  the 

walking   there   was    smoother,    but    when    she 

thought   she   had    come    a    safe    distance   she 

stopped,   intending   to   cross   over   and  seek   a 

hiding-place  for  her  spoil  among  a  small  chaos 

of  weeded  boulders.      Looking   for  a   moment 

athwart    the     black     water,    she    saw    a    dim 

Ik 

streak  of  light  in  the  sky  above  it.  The  moon 
was  glimpsing  out  of  an  eastern  cloud-rift, 
and  throwing  down  a  meagre  web  of  rays, 
which  the  unquiet  dark  surface  caught  fitfully 
and  shredded  into  the  broken  coils  of  a  writhing 
silver  serpent.     Perhaps  it  was  this,  or  perhaps 


2o6     A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

the  golden  snake-chain  in  her  hands,  that 
suggested  the  thing,  but  at  any  rate  Norah 
suddenly  bethought  her  of  the  Piast.  For 
Lough  Fintragh  is  haunted  by  the  terror  of 
one  of  these  monsters,  a  huge  and  grisly  worm, 
dwelling  down  in  the  shadowy  end  of  the  lake, 
where  the  water  is  said  to  have  no  bottom, 
and  to  wander  in  labyrinthine  caverns  about  the 
roots  of  the  mountains.  The  creature  had  not 
been  very  often  seen,  but  Norah  well  knew 
what  a  direful  fate  had  overtaken  every  soul 
to  whom  its  shag-maned,  lurid-eyed  head  and 
rood-length  of  livid  scales  had  disastrously 
appeared.  One  of  its  least  appalling  habits, 
ran  report,  was  to  glare  fixedly  at  its  victim, 
until  fascinated  and  distraught  he  leaped  wildly 
into  the  jaws  gaping  for  their  prey.  In  the 
lonesome,  murmurous  dimness  by  the  shore, 
Norah  did  not  care  to  linger  over  such  incidents, 
and  she  was  turning  away  quickly,  when  a 
shock  of  fright  almost  paralysed  her.  Within 
a  few  yards  of  her  feet  she  saw  two  reddish 
amber  eyes  glowing  through  the  gloom,  and 
from  the  same  place  came  a  sound  of  some- 
thing in  rustling,  flapping  motion. 

It  was,  in  fact,  only  a  harmless  and   rather 
bewildered   seal,  who,  during   the   past   night's 


THE    SNAKES    AND    NORAH     207 

turmoil,  had  somehow  got  into  the  lough,  and 
who  now,  instinctively  aware  of  the  rising  tide, 
had  set  out  eager  to  quit  the  insipid  fresh 
water  for  his  strong-flavoured  Atlantic  brine. 
But  Norah  naturally  jumped  to  the  conclusion 
that  nothing  less  fearsome  than  the  Piast  itself 
was  flopping  towards  her,  and  she  fled  away 
before  it  in  a  headlong  panic,  which  culminated 
a  moment  afterwards  when  she  ran  against 
some  large  moving  body.  This,  again,  was 
simply  her  brother  Joe,  returned  from  setting 
his  friends  on  their  way ;  but  Norah,  with  a 
wild  shriek,  gave  herself  up  for  lost,  and  did 
actually  come  near  putting  an  end  to  herself 
by  tumbling  in  frantic  career  over  one  stone, 
and  striking  her  head  violently  on  another. 
She  had  to  be  carried  home  insensible,  and 
Christmas  Day  had  come  and  gone  before  she 
found  her  way  back  gropingly  to  conscious- 
ness. 

Meanwhile  conjectures,  of  course,  were  rife 
as  to  the  origin  of  her  mishap,  and  the  ante- 
cedents of  the  "  iligant  gold  snaky  chain "  that 
she  was  grasping.  "  Sclutched  that  tight  she 
had  it  in  her  sclenched  fist,  we  were  hard  set 
to  wrench  it  out  of  her  hand,"  Mrs  Kenny 
volubly  told    her    neighbours.      The   favourite 


2o8     A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

theory  held  that  she  "was  after  pickin'  it  up 
on  the  shore,  and  would  be  skytin'  home  wid 
it  in  a  hurry,  not  mindin'  where  she  was  goin', 
and  that  was  the  way  she  got  the  ugly  toss." 
And  when  Norah  had  recovered  from  the  effects 
of  it  sufficiently  to  be  asked  for  her  own 
account  of  the  matter,  she  could  throw  but 
little  light  thereon.  Her  accident  had  left,  as 
so  often  happens,  a  strange  misty  gap  in  her 
memory,  which  it  was  vain  to  scan.  The 
space  between  her  first  sight  of  the  box  and 
her  blinding  crash  down  on  the  shingle  was 
all  a  confused  blank.  However,  two  results  of 
the  affair  emerged,  and,  though  their  cause 
remained  untraceable,  had  a  distinct  influence 
upon  her  future.  One  of  them  was,  that  she 
would  on  no  account  permit  the  snake  necklace 
to  be  regarded  as  her  property.  She  per- 
sistently asserted  that  it  belonged  to  Mary 
and  Rose ;  and  when  Dr  Mason,  who  had 
undertaken  to  dispose  of  it  in  Dublin,  remitted 
an  incredible  number  of  pounds,  she  would 
hear  of  no  arrangement  save  dividing  them 
between  her  sister  and  sister-in-law  elect.  The 
other  had  more  important  consequences  to  the 
whole  course  of  her  life.  It  was  an  abiding 
dread  of  their  connecting  isthmus,  which   had 


THE    SNAKES    AND    NORAH      209 

become  so  horrible  a  place  to  her  that  never 
again  would  she  cross  over  it,  even  when 
promised  the  protection  of  the  most  stalwart 
escort.  Now,  as  the  isthmus  is  very  much  the 
nearest  way  from  the  Kennys'  farm  to  any 
other  habitations,  this  peculiarity  of  Norah's 
cut  her  off  greatly  from  whatever  society  the 
neighbourhood  afforded,  besides  gaining  her 
a  reputation  for  "  quareness "  not  likely  to 
increase  her  popularity.  Probably,  therefore, 
it  may  have  been  part  of  the  reason  why  the 
years  as  they  came  and  went  that  way  found  her 
rooted  fast  and  growing  into  a  settled  old  maid. 
Those  glowering  yellow  eyes  being  blurred 
out  of  her  recollection,  the  Piast  did  not  occur 
to  her  as  the  object  of  her  fear.  But  some 
people  were  not  slow  to  connect  it  with  the 
uncanny  inhabitant  of  the  lough,  and  in  process 
of  time  their  various  imaginations  hardened 
into  a  circumstantial  narrative  of  an  especially 
terrific  appearance  of  the  monster.  To  this 
day,  indeed,  so  current  is  the  story,  that  many 
a  wayfarer  along  the  bleak  shingle  strip  goes 
the  faster  for  a  doubt  whether  such  an  awful 
experience  as  befell  Norah  Kenny  may  not  be 
writhing  towards  him  beneath  the  sunless 
waters  of  Lough  Fintragh. 


THREE    PINT    MEASURES 


THREE    PINT   MEASURES 

THE  little  stream  which  flows  southward 
through  Ballyhoy  must  be  one  of  the 
smallest  contributions  accepted  anywhere  by 
the  sea,  so  insignificant  in  quantity  is  the 
water  trickling  over  the  smoothed  stone  step 
under  the  low  arch  on  the  shore.  Yet  the 
course  of  its  channel  can  be  traced,  when 
the  tide  is  out,  in  gleaming  sky-coloured 
loops  far  across  the  mud-flats.  As  a  rule 
the  tide  there  Is  out :  some  of  the  neighbours 
indeed,  have  a  theory,  no  doubt  scientifically 
untenable,  that  it  comes  in  only  about  once 
a  week.  For  this  narrow  creek,  cut  off  from 
the  Bay  by  the  great  grassy  sandbank  of 
the  North  Bull,  is  steadily  silting  up,  so  that 
its  soundings  grow  shallower  every  year, 
and  rarer  the  occasions  when  we  see  a  plain 
of  sapphire  or  mother-o'-pearl,  threaded  with 
paths  of  silver  rippling,  spread  all  the  way 
between  us  and  the  cliffs  at  purple  Howth. 
It  looks  as  if  the  Bull  would  ultimately 
join      the      mainland      without      intermission. 

Even    now,    at    low    water,    the    passage    to 
213 


214    A    CREEL    OF   IRISH    STORIES 

and  fro  can  be  effected  fairly  dry-shod  by 
well-chosen  routes.  These  are  known  to 
the  cattle  who  graze  on  the  salt  herbage 
among  the  bent-grown  sandhills ;  and  at 
the  fitting  time  and  place,  a  procession  red 
and  white  and  black  may  be  watched  making 
its  way  thence  in  single  file  towards  the 
strip  of  common-like  pasture  beside  the 
sea-road.  But  the  transit,  if  undertaken  by 
the  unwary  or  ignorant,  is  beset  with  serious 
peril,  owing  to  sundry  treacherous  mud-holes, 
which  lurk  around.  Their  smothering  toils 
have  in  time  past  engulfed  much  vainly 
floundering  prey,  both  man  and  beast,  and 
at  the  present  day  several  of  them  are  called 
by  the  names  of  their  respective  victims — 
Byrne's  Hole,  Clancy's  Hole  —  obscurely 
commemorating  tragedies  not  less  piteous 
perhaps  than  those  of  the  Kelpie's  Flow 
and  the  Sands  of  Dee. 

I  have  never  heard  of  any  such  disaster 
befalling  a  class  of  people  who  might  be 
supposed  peculiarly  liable  to  it,  since  so 
much  of  their  time  is  spent  on  the  dangerous 
ground.  All  the  shore  from  Ballyhoy  to 
Portbrendan  is  haunted  by  cockle-pickers,  who 
come    out    from    Dublin,    where    they     lodge 


THREE    PINT    MEASURES       215 

among  the  Liberties  or  other  purlieus,  climb- 
ing down  into  subterranean  cellars,  or 
perhaps  mounting  wide  oaken  stairs  to 
spacious  upper  chambers  with  the  carven 
panels  and  mantelpieces  and  ceilings  of  the 
past  commenting  ironically  on  the  inartistic 
rags  and  squalor  and  famine  of  to-day.  They 
time  their  arrival  to  correspond  with  low 
water,  so  that  when  you  meet  a  batch  of 
them  jogging  along  the  road,  you  can  infer 
the  state  of  the  tide  from  the  contents  of 
the  baskets  they  shoulder,  according  as 
these  include  a  heap  of  grey-fluted  shells 
and  a  trail  of  brown  seaweed,  or  nothing 
except  a  dull  tin  measure  and  a  grimy  little 
pipe.  Nobody  ever  sees  a  cockle-picker  apart 
from  his  or  her  basket,  yet  one  of  them 
would  be  recognised  without  it,  so  constant 
is  the  type  in  the  species.  All  are  neither 
young  nor  old,  all  are  wind  and  weather 
beaten,  all  are  short  of  stature,  any  original 
excess  in  height  being  compensated  for  by 
a  more  pronounced  stoop,  and  the  garments 
of  all  reproduce  the  tints  of  blackish  mud 
and  greenish  slime  as  accurately  as  if  the 
wearers  were  animals  whose  existence  de- 
pended   upon    the    power    of    going   invisible. 


2i6    A    CREEL    OF   IRISH    STORIES 

This  is  not  the  case,  however.  Unaggressive 
and  inoffensive  in  their  habits,  the  cockle- 
pickers  have  no  especial  enemies  save  the 
seasons*  difference,  and  the  dwellers  by  the 
shore  regard  their  proceedings  with  hardly 
more  suspicion  than  those  of  the  white  sea- 
gull flocks  which  sprinkle  the  neighbouring 
dark  fields,  when  the  lea  is  broken  up  and 
disturbed  grubs  abound.  A  favourite  fishery 
is  the  strand  along  by  the  Black  Banks,  a 
little  to  the  eastward  of  the  Ballyhoy  river; 
and  on  most  days  of  the  year  sombre  figures 
are  to  be  seen  there,  paddling  and  poking, 
barefooted,  in  the  mud,  even  when  the 
pools  have  ice  at  the  rim,  and  the  green 
weed  is  stiff  instead  of  slimy. 

Very  differently  does  the  little  Black  Banks 
settlement  view  the  coming  of  some  other 
visitors,  who  put  in  an  appearance  more 
seldom.  But  the  tinkers  are  quite  used  to 
cool  receptions,  and  if  they  went  only  where 
they  were  welcome,  would  find  their  journeys 
much  restricted.  So  as  this  nook  offers  them 
a  camping  ground  conveniently  accessible 
from  the  high  road,  they  occasionally  guide 
their  jolting  donkey-cart  down  the  shingly 
track,   undeterred    by    the    disapproving    eyes 


THREE    PINT    MEASURES       217 

that    watch    them    from   the    adjacent    cabin- 
cluster.       One    row    of    these    has    for    some 
time     past     been     standing      roofless,     a     cir- 
cumstance    which    points    it     out    as     appro- 
priate   quarters    for    all    manner    of  vagrants, 
who     have      forfeited,     if    indeed      they     ever 
possessed,  the   right   to   expect   the   luxury   of 
thatch    overhead.     And    here    the    tinkers   are 
wont   to   spend    a    few    weeks   every    summer, 
seriously  to  the  discomfort  of  their  temporary 
neighbours.       It   must    be    allowed    that   they 
have  righteously  earned  the  evil   repute  which 
dogs  them.     Seven  ordinarily  ingenious   mag- 
pies would  be  less  grievous  to  the  owners  of 
hen-roosts  and  other  portable  property  than  a 
single   tinker.     On    many   a    night    odours    of 
savoury     cooking,     wafted     from     within     the 
ruined    mud    walls,    have    roused    rueful    sus- 
picions in  the  proprietor  of  some  "  grand  young 
pullet "  or  "  iligant  fat  duck,"  which  has  been 
mysteriously  absent  at  the  last  feeding  -  time ; 
and    the    stealthiness     wherewith     a     youthful 
tinker   will   creep   in   the   small    hours   of   the 
morning,  tin-mug  in   hand,  to   milk  somebody 
else's  goat   tethered   behind   a   rickety-boarded 
fence,    would    discredit    no    Blackfoot    on    the 
hunting-trail.      Also    the     tinker     men     drink 


2i8    A    CREEL    OF   IRISH    STORIES 

and  brawl,  and  the  women  storm  and  screech, 
and  the  children  interminably  romp  and 
quarrel,  while  the  whole  confraternity  use 
language  so  wildly  bad  that  it  is  "fit  to 
rise  the  hair  up  off  of  your  head,"  as  scandal- 
ised matrons  observe  standing  at  their  doors, 
and  calling  Biddy  and  Pat  and  Larry  and 
Rose  to  "come  in  out  of  that  and  not  be 
listening  to  such  ungovernable  talk."  And  to 
atone  for  these  causes  of  offence  the  tinkers 
bring  no  social  advantages,  if  you  except  now 
and  then  the  excitement  of  a  stand-up  fight 
between  a  couple  of  the  men,  who  have  grown 
pugnacious  over  their  whisky,  or  the  thrilling 
spectacle  of  an  arrest,  which  sometimes 
occurs  when  the  proceedings  of  the  band 
have  come  under  the  consideration  of  the 
constabulary  in  the  whitewashed  barracks 
above  at  Ballyhoy.  Dramatic  incidents  are, 
be  it  said,  very  highly  valued  hereabouts ; 
but  the  price  of  the  tinker's  performance 
is  more  than  can  be  paid  without  repining. 

One  day  in  the  course  of  their  last  visit, 
it  did  seem  as  if  they  were  going  to  pro- 
duce a  satisfyingly  strong  sensation.  It  came 
about  in  this  way.  Foxy  Cullen,  their 
recognised    chief,    had    returned    late    in    the 


THREE    PINT    MEASURES       219 

warm  afternoon  to  the  Black  Banks  from  a 
tramp  round  the  district  with  a  basket  of 
tinware.  He  had  not  invidiously  omitted 
to  call  at  the  various  "publics"  which  he 
passed,  and  the  consequence  was  that  he 
now  "had  drink  taken,"  a  state  more  peril- 
ously conducive  to  rash  and  reprehensible 
acts  than  downright  drunkenness.  On  the 
present  occasion,  however,  nothing  more 
erratic  suggested  itself  to  Foxy  than  an 
idea  that  he  would  before  he  went  home 
"just  step  across  to  the  Bull  and  see  what 
sort  of  a  place  at  all  it  was  over  there."  He 
had  often  wished  to  do  that,  and  as  the  tide 
had  gone  black  out,  leaving  no  water  visibly 
intervening,  save  the  river's  fine-drawn  thread, 
the  opportunity  appeared  favourable.  So  he 
set  down  his  basket  on  the  wayside  sward, 
kept  close-shaven  by  the  goats,  and  he  called 
to  his  daughter  Peg,  whom  he  .saw  at  hand, 
to  come  along  with  him.  Peg,  a  queer, 
monkey-like  little  figure  in  a  scarlet  print 
frock,  wore  gleeful  grins  as  she  obeyed,  for 
her  ragged  red-bearded  father  was  to  her 
the  flower  and  sum  of  things ;  and  the  pair 
walked  on  over  the  grass  until  its  daisies 
turned  into  sea-pinks,  and    until  the  seaweedy 


220    A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

shingle  which   succeeded   them  gave   place   to 
a  breadth  of  glistening  mud. 

By  the  time  they  had  got  so  far,  Bill 
Duffy  came  round  the  turn  of  the  road, 
faring  homewards  with  his  load  of  cockles. 
Bill  had  had  good  luck  with  his  fishing  that 
day,  and  had  filled  his  basket  almost  before 
the  tide  was  at  its  lowest  ebb,  and  it  should 
perhaps  be  accounted  a  prolongation  of  his 
luckiness  that  the  shimmering  tin  things 
in  Foxy's  basket  now  beckoned  to  him  from 
the  sunny  bank.  He  concluded  that  some 
of  the  tinkers  were  about,  but  he  saw  nobody 
near.  The  tinkers  were  slight  acquaintances 
of  his,  and  he  had  in  fact  just  been  trying 
to  negotiate  the  sale  of  some  of  his  stock 
with  Mrs  Foxy  up  at  the  roofless  cabin. 
Unsuccessfully,  for  she  told  him  with  regret 
that  she  was  "stone  broke,  and  until  himself 
come  home,  you  might  all  as  well  be  lookin' 
to  find  a  penny  in  a  cockle-shell  as  in  her 
ould  pocket."  To  which  Bill  replied,  "  Och 
sure  you  don't  get  that  on'y  in  an  odd  one 
or  so,"  and  departed  acquiescent.  But  this 
derelict  basketful  of  tinware  proved  to  be 
a  matter  less  easily  dealt  with.  At  first 
indeed   he   seemed    about   to   pass   it   by  with 


THREE    PINT    MEASURES       221 

merely  a  casual  glance,  which,  however,  sud- 
denly took  on  fixity  and  meaning,  as  he 
stopped  short  and  ^  stood  looking  earnestly 
at  the  contents.  These  were  mostly  tin  pint 
measures,  a  dozen  of  them,  maybe,  all  very 
new  and  clean  and  shiny. 

Now  it  so  happened  that  at  this  time  Bill 
badly  wanted  such  an  article.  Anybody 
might  have  inferred  as  much  from  the  dingy, 
battered  aspect  of  the  little  vessel  lying  atop 
of  his  blackish-grey  cockle-heap.  In  truth, 
ever  since  an  accident  which  it  had  sustained 
a  good  while  ago,  it  could  only  by  sheer 
courtesy  be  described  as  a  measure  at  all. 
For  a  dray-horse  in  Capel  Street  had  set  his 
shaggy  foot  upon  it,  treatment  which  no  bit 
of  white  metal  could  be  expected  to  endure, 
and  it  had  accordingly  collapsed  into  a  great 
dinge,  rendering  its  capacity  henceforth  a 
question  of  intricate  calculations,  far  beyond 
the  tether  of  Bill  or  his  clients.  This  un- 
chancy distortion  had  only  the  night  before 
lost  him  a  customer,  a  housewife  who  had 
"  priced "  his  wares  as  he  passed  her  half- 
door,  and  showed  every  symptom  of  coming 
to  terms,  when  an  over-officious  friend 
nudged    her    elbow,    observing    "  Laws    bless 


222     A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

us,  woman,  look  at  what  he's  be  way  of 
measurin'  them  wid.  Sure  it  wouldn't  hold 
a  skimpy  handful,  let  alone  a  pint"  Bill 
protested  that  it  held  the  biggest  pint 
in  the  County  Dublin,  and  that  he,  incon- 
sistently, always  allowed  the  half  full  of  it 
over  and  above,  to  make  up  for  any  possible 
deficiency ;  nevertheless  the  prudent  matron 
transferred  her  patronage  to  Mary  Cassidy, 
who  just  then  came  by,  and  he  was  left  in  the 
lurch  with  his  damaged  mug.  But  now,  when 
he  felt  keenly  alive  both  to  its  shortcomings  and 
to  the  difficulties  of  mustering  the  few  pence 
needed  to  replace  it,  here  he  was  all  at  once 
confronted  with  an  assortment  ready  to  his 
hand,  nothing  apparently  interposing  to  hinder 
him  from  acting  on  the  principle  that  Heaven 
helps  those  who  help  themselves. 

Bill  Duffy  was,  as  things  go,  ^t  least 
indifferent  honest ;  yet  his  integrity  made 
but  a  brief  stand  against  the  assault  thus 
suddenly  sprung  upon  it  He  cast  a  furtive 
glance  around,  and  then,  with  a  rapid  dive, 
clutched  a  measure,  and  thrust  it  over  his 
shoulder  down  deep  among  his  cockles,  which 
rattled  clatteringly  together  to  hide  the  stealth. 
The  next  moment  he  started  violently,  and  felt 


THREE    PINT    MEASURES       223 

certain  that  he  was  caught.  For  at  no  great 
distance  there  rose  up  a  skirl  of  shrieking 
shriller  than  had  ever  issued  from  sea-fowl's 
throat,  and  looking  in  the  direction  of  the  sound, 
he  saw  a  small  and  gaudy  figure  running 
towards  him.  It  advanced  in  short  rushes,  now 
and  then  stopping  to  dance  up  and  down  as  if 
in  an  ecstasy  of  rage  or  terror,  but  it  screamed 
unintermittently,  so  that  Bill  could  not  be  sure 
whether  or  no  he  did  hear  basser  shouts  the  while 
proceeding  from  a  point  somewhat  farther  off. 
Presently,  however,  the  note  of  terror  grew 
predominant  enough  to  change  his  opinion 
about  the  cause  of  the  outcry,  and  set  him 
off  trotting  to  meet  it.  This  red-frocked 
screeching  child  turned  out  to  be  Peg  Cullen, 
and  the  burden  of  her  lamentations  was  some- 
thing unintelligible  concerning  "  Daddy,"  whose 
bawls  in  the  background  here  became,  fortun- 
ately for  him,  so  distinct  as  to  furnish  an 
explanatory  note.  Foxy  had  evidently  blun- 
dered into  a  mud-hole,  which  was  now,  in 
conformity  with  its  agreeable  custom,  taking 
prompt  steps  to  secure  and  secrete  him.  Bill 
rapidly  grasped  the  situation,  and  unhitching 
his  heavy  basket  he  detached  its  long  strap, 
and  sped  to  the  rescue,  which,  as  Foxy  was  not 


224    A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

yet  very  deeply  engaged,  he  found  himself 
able  to  effect  A  few  frantic  plunges  and 
desperate  hauls  set  Foxy  on  firm  ground,  ex- 
ceedingly miry  and  alarmed,  and  quite  sober  ; 
Peg  left  off  screaming  and  dancing,  and  they 
all  returned  to  the  road,  stepping  gingerly 
while  they  were  on  the  mud,  but  stamping 
boldly  once  they  felt  the  dry  sod  under  their  feet. 

When  they  came  where  the  tinker's  basket 
was,  Foxy  fell  to  emptying  his  black-oozing 
brogues,  whilst  Bill,  case-hardened  by  much 
wading,  began  to  splice  his  strap,  which  had 
nearly  marred  all  with  symptoms  of  fracture 
during  the  last  critical  tug.  He  had  for  the 
time  being  forgotten  all  about  the  pint  measure. 
By-and-by,  however.  Foxy,  flinging  away  the 
grass-wisp  he  had  used  to  wipe  gff  the  mud, 
and  shuffling  uncomfortably  in  his  soaked  boots, 
said  with  a  dissatisfied  grunt,  "  Augh,  bad  luck 
to  it  for  a  deceptionable  ould  brash,  I  may 
go  now  and  get  another  sup  of  somethin'  or 
else  it 's  destroyed  I  '11  be  wid  the  could  creeps 
in  me  bones  agin  mornin' ;  wud  you  take  a 
glass,  man?" 

"  Sure,  no,"  said  Bill ;  "  I  'm  shankin'  into 
town  meself  as  soon  as  I  can  get  th'  ould  strap 
mended." 


THREE    PINT    MEASURES       225 

"  That 's  not  much  of  a  concern  you  've  got 
there,"  said  Foxy,  pointing  to  Bill's  old  mug 
as  it  lay  dinted  side  uppermost  on  his  cockles  ; 
"past  mendin'  it  is,  I  should  say.  Look-a, 
here's  a  somethin'  better  quality  you'd  be 
welcome  to."  He  held  out  one  of  his  measures 
to  Bill,  who  shrank  back  as  if  its  glittering 
surface  had  been  incandescent  with  white-heat. 
The  consciousness  of  what  was  hidden  in  the 
depths  of  his  basket  seemed  to  scorch  his  face 
and  dazzle  his  eyes. 

"  Och,  not  at  all,  thank  'ee,"  he  said ;  "  sure 
this  I  have  usin'  does  grand  ;  it 's  the  handiest 
one  I  ever  owned.  And  I  have  a  couple  or  so 
of  spare  ones  lyin'  about  at  home  if  I  would  be 
wantin*  them.     Och,  not  at  all." 

"  It 's  a  quare  fancy  you  'd  be  havin',  then,  to 
go  about  wid  the  likes  of  that,"  said  Foxy. 
"  Musha,  man,  how  ready  you  are  to  make  a  lie 
and  tell  it.  Sure  it 's  no  compliment  to  be  takin' 
such  a  trifle  off  me,  when  I  've  got  a  basket  full 
of  them,  and  morebetoken  I  couldn't  say  how 
many  quarts  of  the  bastely  black  mud  I 
mightn't  be  after  swallyin'  down  agin  now  if  it 
wasn't  only  for  you  lendin'  me  a  hand  out — 
bejabers  it  was  the  sizeablest  cockle  you  ever 
landed.  Bad  cess  to  the  could  wather,  it's  at 
p 


226    A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

the  bottom  of  every  manner  of  mischief.  I  'm 
steppin'  along  for  a  drop  of  spirits,  and  I  '11 
lave  the  bit  of  a  mug  wid  you,  whether  or  no." 
He  thrust  it  into  Bill's  basket  and  went  off, 
followed  jealously  by  Peg. 

For  a  moment  Bill  stood  staring  blankly 
after  them,  but  then  an  idea  suggested  itself, 
and  hoisting  his  basket  on  his  arm  he  started  in 
the  opposite  direction. 

At  his  goal,  which  was  the  tinker's  cabin,  he 
found  Mrs  Foxy  stooping  over  her  smoky 
driftwood  fire,  in  a  "  quare  ugly  temper,"  as  her 
family  could  have  told  him.  "  Whethen  now 
and  is  it  yourself  botherin'  back  agin?"  she 
said  upon  seeing  him ;  "  didn't  I  tell  you  a 
while  ago  as  plain  as  I  could  spake  that  we 
weren't  wantin'  cockles  to-day  ?  " 

"Ah  whisht,  honey,  and  don't  be  strikin' 
up  ahead  of  the  fiddler,"  said  Bill  suavely. 
"Amn't  I  just  after  meetin'  himself  out  there, 
and  he  biddin'  me  be  bringin'  you  up  three 
pints  for  your  suppers?" 

Mrs  Foxy's  countenance  cleared  up. 
"  Well,  tubbe  sure,"  she  said ;  "  it 's  not 
often  the  man  has  the  wit  or  the  money 
left  to  do  anythin'  so  raisonable  wid  this  hour 
of  the  evenin'.     But  they  '11  come  in  oncommon 


THREE    PINT    MEASURES       227 

handy,  for  it 's  cleared  out  we  are  to-night 
intirely.  What  all  I  have  for  the  supper 
wouldn't  pacify  a  scutty  wren." 

The  whole  Cullen  family  looked  on  with 
a  sense  of  brightened  prospects  while  Bill 
dropped  the  cockles  resonantly  into  a  tin 
can.  It  is  part  of  Fate's  irony  towards  the 
tinkers  that,  however  plentiful  may  be  the 
lack  of  viands  in  their  larder,  they  are  always 
abundantly  provided  with  cooking  utensils. 
He  meted  out  his  three  pints  with  a  reckless 
liberality  which  convinced  Mrs  Foxy  that  her 
husband  must  have  ordered,  and  paid  for,  a 
couple  of  quarts  at  least.  And  when  he  took 
his  departure,  he  successfully  accomplished  the 
stratagem,  which  had  been  the  main  object  of 
his  visit,  by  laying  down,  unperceived,  Foxy's 
glowing  gift  upon  a  nettle-girt  stone  just  in- 
side the  threshold.  This  done,  he  went  on 
his  way  greatly  relieved  and  self-conciliated. 

But  he  had  not  trudged  many  paces  before 
scurrying  feet  pursued  and  overtook  him. 
Somebody  had  espied  the  purposely  forgotten 
measure,  and  had  remarked  :  "  Och,  he 's  after 
lavin'  his  mug  behind  him " ;  upon  which 
somebody  else  rejoined  :  "  'Deed,  then,  we  've 
slathers    of    them     litterin'    about    widout     it, 


228    A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

so  there's  no  good  keepin'  it  on  the  man. 
Skyte  after  him  wid  it,  Lizzie."  And  Lizzie 
skyted,  sped  by  a  desire  to  be  but  briefly 
absent  from  the  scene  of  preparations  for 
supper,  so  that  she  tossed  the  mug  into  Bill's 
basket  with  scant  ceremony,  and  was  off 
again  ere  he  well  knew  what  had  befallen. 
When  it  grew  clear,  a  leaden  conviction 
dumped  down  on  him  that  he  might  give  up 
setting  his  wits  against  Destiny.  "Sure  it 
was  to  be,"  he  said  to  himself  drearily,  as  he 
resumed  his  plodding,  bent  dejectedly  under 
a  heavier  weight  than  his  moist  basket.  He 
resorted  rather  frequently  to  this  obvious  truth, 
whence  we  may  infer  that  his  stock  of  con- 
solatory reflections  was  not  extensive. 

When  he  came  once  more  where  the  road 
crossed  the  river,  he,  according  to  custom  in 
warm  weather,  climbed  down  the  grassy  bank 
for  a  drink.  On  this  occasion,  however,  his 
first  act  was  to  take  all  his  three  pint  measures 
out  of  the  basket  and  set  them  in  a  row — • 
the  one  he  had  been  given,  and  the  one  he 
had  stolen,  and  the  battered  old  one  that  had, 
in  a  manner,  caused  the  whole  difficulty.  Bill 
eyed  them  gloomily  as  they  glinted  in  the 
long    rays.      "  Troth,   it 's   themselves    are    the 


THREE    PINT    MEASURES       229 

iligant  lookin'  collection,"  he  said  to  himself 
with  some  resentment,  "  and  a  grand  ould 
slieveen's  trick  it  was  to  be  thievin'  a  poor 
man's  bit  of  property,  and  he  all  the  time 
widin  two  twos  of  dhrowndin'  dead,  scarce  a 
stone's  -  throw  away.  Ay,  bedad,  it  was  so. 
But,  musha,  it  was  to  be."  As  he  mused 
mutteringly,  he  picked  up  a  mug  at  random 
and  dipped  it  carelessly  in  the  stream,  but 
something  surprising  followed.  For  the  water 
it  scooped  up  straightway  plashed  out  of  it 
again,  as  if  poured  through  a  funnel.  Of 
course,  Bill  investigated  the  reason  of  this, 
and  the  result  was  a  discovery  which  lit  up 
his  /ace  v/ith  a  broad  grin.  Through  some 
delect  m  the  soldering,  the  bottom  of  the 
vessel  had  almost  detached  itself  from  the 
rim,  and  flapped  out  like  a  swing  door  at 
the  slightest  touch.  It  could,  clearly,  hold 
nothing ;  and  it  was  the  stolen  mug — he  re- 
cognised it  by  the  handle. 

"  Bless  me  ould  bones,  look  at  that  now," 
Bill  said  gleefully,  "you  might  all  as  well  be 
axin'  wather  to  stop  aisy  in  the  holes  of  me 
ould  basket  here.  Sure  it  wouldn't  hould  e'er 
a  hap'orth  of  anythin'  wet  or  dhry "  —  he 
dropped    a    handful    of    cockles    into    it,   and 


23©    A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

triumphantly  watched  them  slip  through  and 
fall  with  tiny  thuds  on  the  grass.  "  Ay, 
begorra,  it'd  ha'  never  been  a  thraneen  of 
use  to  man  or  mortal ;  ne'er  a  brass  bawbee 
was  it  worth  all  the  time,  glory  be  to  God." 
He  gloated  over  its  dilapidations  for  a 
while  longer,  and  at  last  poked  it  in  behind 
a  stone  under  the  arch,  where,  for  aught  I 
know,  it  may  remain  to  the  present  day. 
Then  he  gathered  up  the  rest  of  his  effects, 
and  finally  resumed  his  interrupted  journey 
Dublin-wards,  facing  a  sky  where  the  sunset 
grew  as  golden  as  the  light  in  a  crocus-cup. 
But  he  no  longer  muttered  :  "It  was  to  be." 
The  burden  of  his  meditations  was :  "  Bedad 
now,  it's  a  good  job  I  happened  to  be  widin 
hearin'  of  their  roars,  or  else  they  might  be 
lettin'  them  yet  And  belike  I  wouldn't 
ha'  been,  if  it  wasn't  only  be  raison  of  me 
stoppin'  to— to — to  look  at  them  pint  mues.** 


THE    SURREE    AT    MAHON'S 


THE  SURREE  AT  MAHON'S 

FEW  people,  I  think,  can  ever  have  been 
impressed  by  the  Hveliness  of  little 
Killymeen,  set  in  its  nook  among  the  lone- 
some mountain  and  moorland,  its  one 
humble  street  forming  the  nucleus  of  a 
sparse  cabin-sprinkling,  which  strews  white 
flecks  on  the  far  sweeping  green  folds  hardly 
plentier  than  hailstones  on  a  grass  plot  half 
a  sunny  hour  after  a  July  thunderstorm. 
Yet  to  Bridget  Doran,  the  girl  who  had 
lately  taken  service  with  the  Caseys  up  at 
the  Quarry  Farm,  it  seemed  a  centre  of 
fashion  and  gaiety,  being,  indeed,  the  most 
considerable  place  she  had  seen  in  all  her 
seventeen  years.  For  they  had  been  spent 
up  at  Loughdrumesk,  a  hamlet  fully  ten 
miles  deeper  among  the  wildest  townlands, 
with  only  a  rough  cart-track  threading  a 
black  bog,  and  climbing  endless  shaggy 
slopes,  and  dropping  over  a  purple  mountain 
shoulder  to  connect  it  with  Killymeen,  She 
had   left  behind  there,  three  months   ago,  her 

feeble  old    grandfather    and    alert   old   grand- 
233 


234    A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

mother,  in  a  tiny,  high-pefched  cabin,  which 
felt  a  world  too  wide  for  its  other  indwellers 
when  this  third  of  their  lives  had  gone. 
And  since  then  there  had  been  much  travel- 
ling of  thoughts  to  and  fro  between  it  and  the 
Casey's  prim  whitewashed  farmhouse  at  the 
foot  of  Slieve  Glasarna.  At  first  Bridget's 
had  made  the  journey  as  constantly  as  her 
grandmother's,  but  she  was  young  and  busy 
and  in  a  new  place,  and  as  the  weeks  went 
on  she  became  more  engrossed  with  what  lay 
immediately  before  her. 

The  Surree  at  Mahon's,  fixed  for  a  day 
ifn  Christmas  week,  was  the  most  exciting 
of  the  fresh  prospects  that  unfolded  them- 
selves, and  was  looked  forward  to  with 
much  pleased  interest  by  Killymeen  at 
large.  There  had  been  no  Surrees  in  the 
neighbourhood  during  a  long  spell  of  bad 
times,  but  this  year  matters,  were  looking 
brighter,  and  old  Barney  Mahon,  who  had  a 
thrifty  turn  and  a  commodious  kitchen,  was 
encouraged  to  make  a  venture  which  promised 
fair  profits  at  a  small  risk.  For  a  Surree, 
which  has  with  quaint  effect  borrowed  its 
name  from  polite  French,  is  a  sort  of  sub- 
scription   dance,   little    more    elaborate   in    its 


THE    SURREE    AT    MAHON'S       235 

arrangements  than  are  the  kaleys,  or  con- 
versazioni, that  beguile  so  many  wintry 
hours  in  Donegal  homes,  when  all  the  dark 
out-of-doors  hurtles  and  splashes  with  wind 
and  rain,  and  the  neighbours  drift  into  their 
places  round  some  appointed  hearth  as 
promiscuously  as  a  wreath  of  dry  leaves 
swept  rustling  together  by  an  aerial  eddy. 
At  a  Surree  each  couple  pay  a  shilling,  but 
no  refreshment  is  expected  save  frugally- 
dispensed  tea ;  and  the  fiddler  is  content  to 
scrape  for  a  modest  fee  and  his  chances  of 
small  coins  from  the  dancers.  Dark  Hugh 
M'Evoy,  being  Barney's  cousin,  was  willing 
to  supply  the  music  for  this  occasion  on 
specially  easy  terms ;  and,  in  short,  circum- 
stances conspired  to  make  it  seem  desirable 
that  Barney  should  meet  the  often-expressed 
wish  of  his  younger  friends  by  announcing 
the  first  Surree  of  the  season. 

It  would  be  Bridget's  first  taste  of  any 
formal  dissipation,  and  Rose  Casey,  her 
master's  niece,  and  Kate  Duffy,  his  plough- 
man's daughter,  who  lived  in  the  yard,  set 
her  expectation  on  tiptoe  extremely  by  their 
accounts  of  like  entertainments.  Kate  and 
she  were  to  go  together,  as  it  is  the  custom 


236     A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

to  attend  Surrees  in  couples.  These  often 
are  formed  of  a  colleen  with  the  boy  who 
is  "spakin"'  to  her,  but  often  also  a  brother 
and  sister  make  a  pair,  or  any  other  two 
friends.  Rose  Casey  was  to  marry  Peter 
O'Donoghue  at  Shrovetide,  so  she  would, 
of  course,  go  with  him — a  fact  of  which  she 
made  a  little  parade  to  Bridget,  who  felt, 
however,  perfectly  content  with  Kate's  escort: 
a  sweetheart  of  her  own  would  have  seemed, 
indeed,  an  alarming  possession.  Her  mistress 
had  advanced  her  a  shilling  out  of  her  quarter's 
wages — a  whole  pound  —  and  she  had  ex- 
pended the  sixpence  left  after  securing  her 
admission  to  the  Surree  upon  a  splendid  red 
glass  brooch,  which  made  her  think  her 
equipment  very  complete. 

But  just  when  everything  seemed  gliding 
most  smoothly  towards  the  delightful  goal,  an 
obstacle  suddenly  cropped  up  and  threatened 
to  overthrow  all  her  plans  with  one  disastrous 
jolt.  On  a  certain  frost-spangled  morning  the 
postman  brought  to  Bridget  a  letter,  whose 
contents  agreed  with  her  wishes  as  ill  as  a 
dash  of  vinegar  would  have  done  with  the 
thick  cream  which  she  was  churning  when 
the    mail    arrived.       Her    grandmother    wrote 


THE    SURREE    AT    MAHON'S       237 

to  say  that  "she  thought  bad  of  Biddy  to 
be  trampin'  the  long  way  her  lone  from 
Killymeen  to  their  place,  and  that  old  Bill 
Molloy  was  slippin'  over  wid  his  pony  and 
a  gatherin'  of  eggs  to  the  Magamore  on  next 
Thursday  morning,  and  'd  give  her  a  lift  if 
she'd  start  along  wid  him  when  he  would  be 
goin'  back.  So  Biddy  had  a  right  to  ax  lave 
of  her  mistress,  and  come  home  wid  ould 
Bill,  who'd  turn  a  bit  out  of  his  way  to  pick 
her  up?  and  real  glad  they'd  be  to  set  eyes 
on  her  again."  For  Mrs  Casey  had  promised 
Biddy  her  choice  of  three  days  in  Christmas 
week  to  spend  at  home,  dairy  work  being 
slack.  Bridget  had  looked  forward  to  the 
holiday  with  a  glow  of  pleasure,  and  meant 
to  take  it  on  the  Friday,  which  would  be 
Christmas  Eve,  and  the  day  after  the  Surree. 
But  her  grandmother's  injunction  was  not 
compatible  with  this  arrangement. 

"  Sure  I  'd  miss  all  the  fun  and  everythin' 
if  I  took  off  and  \»ent  wid  ould  Bill — I 
wish  he  and  his  baste  of  an  ugly  skewbald 
'd  keep  themselves  out  of  botherin'  where 
they  arn't  wanted,"  she  said,  half- crying,  to 
her  friends  Rose  and  Kate,  as  she  showed 
them  the  letter  in  the  kitchen. 


238     A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

"  Musha,  good  gracious,"  said  Rose,  "  you 
wouldn't  ever  think  of  goin'?  Just  bid  the 
ould  man  step  along  wid  himself,  and  say 
you  '11  come  on  Friday." 

"  But  me  grandmother  'd  be  rale  vexed  if 
I  done  that,  and  he  after  goin'  out  of  his 
road  to  call  for  me,"  said  Bridget  doubtfully. 

"Well,  then,"  said  Kate,  "you  might  write 
and  tell  her  not  to  send  him.  This  is  only 
Tuesday ;  there 's  plenty  of  time  yet,  and 
I  've  a  stamp  in  me  box  this  long  while 
you  're  welcome  to." 

"  Ay,  to  be  sure,"  said  Rose,  "  and  say  me 
aunt  can't  spare  you  convanient  afore  Friday." 

"  But,"  said  Bridget,  looking  disconcerted, 
"  I'm  after  sendin*  her  word  be  Judy  Flynn 
that  I  'd  got  lave  to  come  any  day  at  all 
this  week." 

"Oh,  botheration  to  it,"  said  Rose.  "Then 
say  you  're  too  bad  with  a  cowld,  and  couldn't 
be  thravellin'  that  far.  Bedad,  I  heard  you 
coughin'  this  mornin'  fit  to  fall  in  pieces  like 
the  head  of  the  witherdy  geranium  there. 
Morebetoken,  the  red  one  in  the  windy 
corner's  dhroppin'  itself  into  the  pan  of 
buttermilk  where  you  've  set  it ;  you  'd  better 
be  movin'  it  out  of  that." 


THE    SURREE    AT    MAHON'S       239 

"  I  have  a  heavy  cowld  on  me  sure 
enough,"  said  Bridget,  coughing  to  convince 
herself,  but  her  disconcerted  expression 
remained,  and  she  fidgetted  about  uneasily. 
"  For  the  matter  of  writin',"  she  said,  "  you 
see  the  time  I  was  gettin'  me  schoolin'  I 
did  be  mostly  mindin'  the  sheep,  and  I  can 
make  some  sort  of  an  offer  at  the  readin' 
if  it's  wrote  pretty  big,  but  writin'  oneself  is 
quare  nigglety  work." 

"  Mercy  on  us,  girl  alive,  if  that 's  all  that 
ails  you,  I  '11  write  a  letter  for  you  meself  in 
a  minyit  and  a  half,"  said  Rose  with  alacrity. 
"  Bedad  will  I.  Sure  I  've  wrote  to  Peter 
times  and  again  when  he  was  stoppin'  away 
at  Manchester.  So  don't  bother  your  head 
about  it ;  lave  the  regulation  of  it  to  me. 
I  've  plenty  of  paper  meself,  and  Kate  '11  give 
me  her  stamp." 

Bridget  agreed  to  this  plan,  though  not 
without  some  qualms  of  conscience,  which 
made  her  refrain  guiltily  from  inquiring  about 
the  details  of  its  execution,  thereby  giving 
Rose  a  free  hand,  of  which  she  availed  herself 
without  much  scruple.  She  had  an  imagin- 
ative turn  of  mind,  and  a  taste  for  fiction, 
so   her   story  grew   under   her   scratching   pen 


240     A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

until  in  the  end  she  produced  a  letter  pur- 
porting to  come  not  from  Bridget,  but  from 
herself,  and  describing  Bridget's  indisposition 
as  not  a  simple  cold,  but  an  attack  of 
"  plussery-newmoney."  This  formidable  com- 
plaint would  hinder  her  from  returning  with 
Bill  Molloy.  "  But  she  '11  come,"  wrote  Rose, 
"  as  soon  as  ever  she 's  able.  And  that  won't 
be  before  Friday  anyway,  if  she  overs  it  at 
all."  The  last  clause  struck  her  as  giving 
an  effective  completeness  to  the  composition, 
and  she  read  it  over  with  a  complacency 
which  did  not  take  into  account  how  it  might 
be  spelled  out  in  the  bleak  little  hill-side 
cabin  off  away  at  Loughdrumesk. 

The  evening  of  the  Surree  arrived  in  due 
course,  and  with  it  a  flutter  of  snow,  swirling 
on  rough  and  unruly  blasts.  Silver-white 
threads  and  stitches  had  begun  to  embroider 
the  purple  folds  of  Slieve  Glasarna  before 
the  mists  descended  muffling  and  blurring ; 
and  the  paths  crunched  crisply  under  brogues, 
and  made  cold  clutches  at  bare  feet  by  the 
time  that  the  neighbours  were  approaching 
Barney  Mahon's  door.  They  remarked  to 
one  another  that  it  was  hardy  weather,  and 
added  that  they  were  apt  to  have  it  "  sevare," 


THE    SURREE    AT    MAHON'S       241 

which  is  some  degree  worse  than  hardy. 
Few  people,  however,  had  been  daunted  into 
staying  at  home,  and  there  was  much  shaking 
of  powder  flakes  out  of  shawl-folds  and  ,off 
rough  coat-sleeves  at  the  entrance  to  Barney's 
lustily  flickering  room. 

When  Rose  and  Kate  and  Bridget  got 
there,  which  they  did  as  soon  as  ever  they 
could  finish  "readying  up"  after  tea,  most 
of  the  company  had  assembled,  and  dancing 
was  about  to  begin.  Rose's  temper  was 
somewhat  ruffled  because  Peter  O'Donoghue 
had  not  kept  his  promise  of  coming  to 
escort  her.  But  his  sisters  now  hastened  to 
explain  how  he  had  been  delayed  by  the 
sudden  illness  of  their  calf.  "  Howane'er  the 
baste  was  comin'  round  finely  when  they 
left,"  they  reported,  and  Peter  would  be 
after  them  in  no  time.  So  his  fiancee  was 
appeased,  and  contented  herself  provision- 
ally with  Larry  Sullivan  for  a  partner.  "  Faix, 
now,  it 's  on'y  an  odd  turn  the  rest  of  us 
boys  gets  wid  you  these  times,"  he  said  to 
her  gallantly  as  the  fiddler  struck  up.  "Ne'er 
a  chance  we  have  at  all,  unless  when  the 
luck  keeps  him  that's  luckier  away." 

Do  not  suppose  that  the  Surree  danced  jigs. 
Q 


242     A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

Later  on  in  the  evening  a  couple  might 
stand  up  and  perform  one  while  the  others 
were  recovering  their  breath ;  but  at  the  out- 
set it  was  a  vigorous  round  dance  that  began 
to  gyrate  with  a  step  which,  though  perhaps 
not  recognised  in  any  academy,  kept  time 
to  Hugh's  music  with  much  accuracy,  and 
made  light  of  the  difficulties  opposed  by  an 
uneven  mud  floor.  The  crockery  on  the 
dresser  jingled  merrily  to  the  rhythmical  beat 
of  their  feet ;  and  each  pair  of  bobbing  heads 
that  passed  in  front  of  it,  might  be  seen  to 
make  an  abrupt  dip  down  and  up  again. 
This  was  caused  by  an  unusually  deep  hollow 
which  occurred  in  that  part  of  the  floor,  and 
Barney  Mahon,  looking  on  with  the  elders 
from  their  circle  round  the  hearth,  observed 
it  and  said — "  Begob,  I  must  see  to  having 
that  houle  filled  up  before  next  time,  or  else 
somebody '11  be  trippin'  up  in  it,  and  gettin' 
a  quare  toss." 

The  other  spectators  sat  well  content  with 
their  share  of  the  entertainment  Pungently- 
puffing  cutty  pipes  solaced  the  men,  and  the 
women  kept  their  knitting  needles  twinkling ; 
in  fact,  they  would  almost  as  soon  have  left 
off  breathing  by  way  of  rest   and    relaxation. 


THE    SURREE    AT    MAHON'S       243 

For  further  amusement  they  had  the  affairs 
of  the  countryside  to  discuss,  enlivened  by  an 
occasional  anecdote  or  riddle.  Dan  Goligher 
had  just  propounded  one  of  the  latter  which 
successfully  puzzled  everybody  who  had  not 
heard  it  before — 

Jl  broytn  lough 

Wid  a  nvhite  strand, 
Sorra  the  ship  could  sail  around  it. 
But  I  can  hould  it  in  my  hand  j 

and  he  was  triumphantly  explaining,  "  Sure 
a  cup  of  tea,"  when  two  people  came  bolting 
in  at  the  door,  which  they  forthwith  began 
to  secure  behind  them,  as  if  they  were  shutting 
out  some  deadly  peril.  They  said  nothing, 
but  their  speechless  hurry  was  more  suggestive 
than  words. 

"Whethen  now,  Peter  O'Donoghue  and 
Ned  Kinsella,  what's  took  you  at  all  to  be 
flouncin'  in  on  the  people  that  a-way?"  said 
Barney  Mahon,  somewhat  affronted  at  their 
unceremonious  entrance  and  dealings  with  his 
fastenings  and  furniture.  "That's  a  great  ould 
slammin'  of  the  door  you  have — and  what 
for  would  you  be  jammin'  the  bench  again 
it,  unless  you  're  intendin'  the  next  body 
that  comes  thro'  it  to  be  breakin'  his  shins?" 


244     A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

"Troth,  I  on'y  hope  it  may — and  its  neck 
too,  between  us  and  harm — if  it 's  offering  to 
come  in  on  us — I  do  so,"  said  Peter  O'Donoghue, 
panting.  He  left  his  comrade  to  finish 
barricading  the  door,  and  pushed  himself 
farther  into  the  room,  until  several  groups 
interposed  between  him  and  the  dangerous 
point.  "After  us  it  may  be  this  minyit  of 
time,"  he  said.  "  Och,  but  that  was  the  quare 
fright  I  got ;  the  saints  look  down  upon  us 
this  night!" 

"  It 's  herself  below  at  th'  ould  gate  there," 
said  Ned  Kinsella,  who  was  calmer  than 
Peter,  though  evidently  much  alarmed.  "And 
more-be-token  it's  not  inside  she  is  this  night, 
but  sittin'  crouched  up  on  the  bank  be  the 
path,  and  the  grab  she  made  at  Peter  going 
by  ;  'deed,  I  thought  he  'd  never  get  his  coat- 
tail  wrenched  out  of  her  ould  hand." 

"It  might  as  well  ha'  been  caught  in  a 
rat-trap  the  way  she  held  on,"  said  Peter. 
"  I  give  you  me  word  me  hair 's  standin* 
on  end  yet,  fit  to  rise  me  hat  off  the  roof  of 
me  head.  What  wid  that  and  the  onnathural 
screeches  she  let,  I  won'er  you  didn't  hear 
them  here.  And  it's  my  belief  she  set  off 
leggin'  after   us — goodness    preserve   us — on'y 


THE    SURREE    AT    MAHON'S       245 

I   was   afraid    of    me   life   to   look   round    and 
see." 

These  tidings  spread  general  consternation 
among  the  company,  as  under  the  circum- 
stances they  well  might  do.  For  only  a 
few  hundred  yards  down  the  loaning  lay  an 
ancient  burying-ground,  with  its  ruined  chapel 
and  weed  -  entangled  tombstones,  a  place 
whose  ghostly  reputation  had  long  been 
established  at  Killymeen.  In  particular  the 
wraith  of  a  little  old  woman  was  often  to  be 
seen  of  an  evening  peering  out  through  the 
rusty  gate-bars,  and  sometimes  stretching  forth 
a  fearsome  hand  to  pluck  at  the  unwary 
passer-by.  But  her  appearance  out  on  the 
roadside  was  a  new  development,  and  one 
which  made  Peter  and  Ned's  report  unpleasant 
hearing  for  people  who  would  presently  be 
obliged  to  take  that  route  home.  The  dance 
came  to  a  standstill,  and  in  its  stead  a  series 
of  dismal  ghost-stories  began  to  circle  round 
the  room.  Perhaps  the  most  gruesome  of 
them  was  Nick  Carolan's.  He  related  how 
he  had  once  lived  in  a  place  where  there  was 
in  the  middle  of  the  yard  a  deep  well,  out 
of  which  on  certain  moonlit  nights  a  dark 
figure  would    emerge    and    go    gliding    round 


246    A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

and  round  it,  making  a  wider  and  wider 
circuit,  until  she  reached  the  house,  at  whose 
door  she  rapped  loudly  as  she  passed  by. 
And  whenever  that  happened  there  would  be 
a  death  in  the  family  before  the  twelvemonth 
was  out  as  sure  as  fate.  A  general  shudder 
followed  this  denouement^  and  old  Mrs  Linders 
made  a  particular  application  of  it  by  remark- 
ing gloomily  that  it  was  a  poor  case  to  have 
the  likes  of  such  crathurs  about ;  but  Mrs 
Coleman,  a  comely  matron,  who  continued  to 
sit  by  the  fire  unperturbed,  said  placidly  in 
a  pause,  "  Sorra  a  bit  of  harm  there 's  in  it 
this  night  I  'm  a-thinkin'.  If  the  lads  seen 
any  thin',  it's  apt  to  ha'  just  been  some  poor 
body  after  missin'  her  way  in  the  snow." 

"Troth  and  bedad,  then  it  was  the  quare 
body  altogether,"  Peter  asseverated,  "and 
the  hair  of  me  head,  as  I  was  tellin'  you, 
bristlin'  straight  wid  the  dhread  of  her  the 
jfirst  minyit  I  come  nigh  the  place." 

"  Ah,  sure,  some  people 's  as  ready  at  that 
as  a  dog  at  cockin'  his  ears,"  said  Joey 
Nolan.  "  Maybe  we  'd  a  right  to  go  look  is 
there  e'er  a  one  in  it.  Some  crathur  might 
be  strayin'  about  perishin',  and  it  snowin' 
again  as  thick  as  sheep's  wool." 


THE    SURREE    AT    MAHON'S       247 

"  Bcgor  you  won't  persuade  me  to  go 
foolin'  along  wid  you,"  said  Peter ;  "  I 
couldn't  be  gettin'  my  heels  out  of  it  fast 
enough.  May  the  saints  have  me  sowl,  but 
I  thought  I  'd  lose  me  life  afore  ever  I  landed 
inside — and  here  I  '11  stop.  Nobody  need  be 
axin'  me,  for  divil  a  fut  I  '11  stir." 

"Good  people  are  scarce,"  Joe  observed 
sarcastically ;  but  Peter  went  on  in  a  half- 
complacent  tone,  "One  while  it'll  be  afore 
I  'm  the  better  of  that  frightenin'  I  got. 
Every  mortal  bit  of  me's  in  a  thrimble  wid 
it  yet." 

"  Musha,  then,  you  gaby,  can't  you  whisht 
about  it,  instead  of  to  be  tellin'  everybody 
the  sort  of  ould  polthroon  you  are?"  Rose 
Casey  whispered  to  him  fiercely,  ready  to 
cry  with  mortification  as  she  saw  significant 
smiles  passing  round  at  the  expense  of  her 
happily  unconscious  betrothed. 

As  she  spoke,  the  door  resounded  with  a 
heavy  thump,  which  made  those  who  were 
standing  next  it  hop  back  with  a  scarcely 
dignified  haste.  Some  of  them  tried  to  carry 
it  off  by  pretending  that  they  were  merely 
getting  out  of  one  another's  way,  while  some 
shrieked    unfeignedly,   and   above    all   ejacula- 


248     A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

tions  rose  Peter  O'Donoghue's  voice,  shrill 
with  undissembled  terror,  saying :  "  Oh  to 
goodness,  don't  open  it  for  your  lives.  Run 
that  other  form  again  it,  you  that  are  widin 
raich.  Mercy  be  among  us,  she's  apt  to 
have  us  all  destroyed." 

"Arrah,  now,  will  you  be  lettin'  us  in  out 
of  that,  you  jackasses,  you?"  shouted  a  voice 
reassuringly  familiar  and  irate.  It  was  young 
Larry  Sullivan,  who  had  slipped  out  through 
the  back  door  a  few  minutes  before,  and  whose 
impatience  at  being  kept  waiting  had  nothing 
supernatural  about  it.  Despite  Peter's  re- 
monstrances, the  door  was  thrown  open,  and 
disclosed  Larry,  standing  tall  against  a  back- 
ground of  glimmering  white,  in  a  gloom 
which,  when  you  looked  into  it  anywhere 
steadily,  grew  full  of  wandering  flakes  like 
scattered  bread-crumbs.  Beside  him  appeared 
a  smaller  figure,  whom  he  pulled  indoors 
along  with  him  before  anybody  well  had 
time  for  terrific  surmises,  and  whom  the  fire- 
light showed  to  be  a  little  old  woman, 
wrapped  up  in  a  powdered  brown  shawl. 
She  was  breathless  and  bewildered  and  forlorn- 
looking,  as  she  peered  round  from  face  to 
face,    all     strange,     all    comfortless — but    no! 


THE    SURREE    AT    MAHON'S       249 

for  the  moment  Bridget  Doran  set  eyes  on 
her  she  sprang  at  her  and  caught  her  in  a 
great  hug — 

"Why,  granny  darlint,  and  is  it  yourself?" 
she  said.  "  And  how  at  all  did  you  come 
this  night  in  the  snow?  It's  kilt  you  are 
entirely.  You  can't  ever  ha'  come  wid  ould 
Bill  Molloy?" 

"Ah,  honey,  I  thramped  it,"  said  old  Mrs 
Doran.  "Sure  I  couldn't  rest  aisy,  thinkin' 
me  little  Biddy  was  took  that  bad  away  all 
her  lone  among  the  strange  people.  But 
finely  you're  looking,  glory  be  to  goodness. 
'Deed  now  me  heart's  been  fit  to  break  fret- 
tin'  ever  since  I  got  the  letter  this  mornin', 
sayin'  that  belike  you  wouldn't  get  over  it." 

"An'  I  to  be  dancin'  round  like  a  zany 
bewitched,  and  you  all  the  while  streelin* 
through  the  snow,"  said  Bridget,  with  acute 
remorse.  "  It 's  sorry  I  am  that  I  let  any- 
body send  you  such  owld  lies.  But"  — 
looking  indignantly  at  Rose — "  I  only  said 
to  say  that  I  had  a  cowld." 

"And  I  lost  me  way  in  the  dark,"  went 
on  Mrs  Doran  plaintively,  "and  what  at  all 
I  'd  ha'  done  I  dunno,  on'y  for  the  dacint 
boy    coming    by,    for    nought    else    the   other 


250    A    CREEL    OF   IRISH    STORIES 

two'd    do     but    let    yells    at     me,     and     run 
away  like  scared  turkeys." 

"  Creepin'  along  under  the  high  bank  she 
was,  the  crathur,  when  I  met  her,"  Larry 
meanwhile  was  telling  the  others,  "  and  scarce 
able  to  contind  wid  the  blasts  of  the  win'. 
And  sez  she  to  me,  '  For  the  love  of  God, 
just  stop  to  tell  me  am  I  anywhere  near 
the  Casey's  house  ? '  And  sez  I  to  her,  '  Is 
it  the  Quarry  Farm  you  're  wantin'  ? '  And 
sez  she  to  me,  'Ay,  it's  where  my  poor 
Katey's  little  daughter  Bridget  Doran's  in 
service,  and  dyin'  wid  some  manner  of  out- 
landish sickness :  It 's  to  her,  I  'm  goin','  sez 
she.  So  sez  I  to  her,  if  it  was  Bridget  Doran 
she  was  wantin',  I  'd  seen  the  girl  three  minyits 
ago,  and  ne'er  a  sign  of  dyin'  on  her  what- 
some'er,  and  I  just  brought  her  along  here. 
It's  perished  and  stupid  the  crathur  is  wid 
the  cowld.  You'd  a  right  to  get  her  a  cup 
of  hot  tay,  and  a  warm  at  the  fire,"  concluded 
Larry,  thereupon  bestirring  himself  to  super- 
intend the  carrying  out  of  this  prescription. 
And  a  little  later  he  prompted  his  mother  to 
offer  Mrs  Doran  a  night's  lodging  at  their 
house  close  by,  thus  entailing  upon  themselves 
more  hospitality  than  they  had  foreseen. 


THE    SURREE    AT    MAHON'S       251 

For  of  the  Surree  at  Mahon's  all 's  well 
that  ends  well  could  not  quite  be  said,  as 
some  of  the  guests  were  disposed  to  say- 
prematurely  when  the  assembly  was  breaking 
up.  To  begin  with,  old  Mrs  Doran  had 
caught  a  very  bad  chill  during  her  snowy 
wanderings,  and  now  had  a  severe  illness 
which  endangered  her  life,  and  obliged 
Bridget  to  pay  many  an  anxious  and 
conscience-stricken  hour  as  a  fee  for  her 
deceptive  letter,  while  a  difference  which  she 
had  next  morning  with  Rose  Casey  about 
the  unauthorised  mendacity  of  its  contents 
led  to  a  permanent  cooling  down  of  their 
friendship.  Moreover,  Rose,  on  the  very- 
same  day,  spoke  in  such  scathing  terms  to 
Peter  O'Donoghue  with  reference  to  his 
panic  on  the  night  before,  that  even  his 
impenetrable  self-satisfaction  was  touched, 
and  a  violent  falling  out  ensued.  The  conse- 
quence was  that  no  wedding  took  place  at 
Shrovetide ;  and  the  last  time  I  had  news 
from  Killymeen  "there  was  no  talk  of  it 
at  all,  at  all,"  so  the  breach  may  be  con- 
sidered final.  In  fact,  it  is  commonly  supposed 
that  he  has  some  notion  of  transferring  his 
attentions   to   Bridget   Doran.      But    I    happen 


252     A    CREEL    OF    IRISH      STORIES 

to  know  that  the  only  one  among  the  boys 
she  thinks  anything  of  is  Larry  Sullivan, 
whom  she  always  remembers  gratefully  as 
the  rescuer  of  her  grandmother.  Whereas, 
if  Larry  fancies  anyone,  it  is  Kate  Duffy. 

Whence  it  appears  that  some  rather  com- 
plicated cross  currents  in  the  stream  of  life 
flowing  through  Killymeen  have  started  from 
this  Surree  at  Mahon's. 


THE    SHORTEST    WAY 


THE    SHORTEST    WAY 

DISTRICT  -  INSPECTOR  ROCHFORT 
had  risen  very  early  on  that  wet  August 
morning,  to  go  trout-fishing  along  the  Feltragh 
River.  He  hoped  to  get  a  couple  of  hours  at 
it  before  breakfast ;  so  he  was  not  best  pleased 
when  Hugh  Christie  accosted  him  as  he  crossed 
the  Ivy  Bridge.  Hugh  was  looking  over  the 
wreathed  parapet  up  the  river,  and  did  not  take 
his  eyes  off  it ;  only  put  out  a  hand  as  Mr 
Rochfort  passed,  and  stopped  him  with  a  touch 
on  the  arm.  Undoubtedly  Hugh  had  queer 
ways.  His  neighbours  pronounced  him  to  be 
"not  all  there,"  which  seemed  an  inappropriate 
description  of  his  peculiarities,  as  rather  there 
was  more  of  him  than  of  other  people.  But 
the  more  was  something  uncanny.  He  now 
said,  still  watching  the  water :  "  I  was  thinkin' 
the  Sargint  might  come  by ;  howsome'er,  sir, 
you'll  do  as  well." 

"That  I  won't,  my  man,"  said  Mr  Rochfort, 
"  unless  it  can  be  done  uncommonly  smart,  for 
I  've  no  time  to  waste." 

"  It's  as  short  as  it 's  long,"  said  Hugh.  "  But 
255 


256    A    CREEL    OF   IRISH    STORIES 

you  needn't  mind  about  thim" — he  pointed  to 
the  young  man's  rod  and  creel — "there'll  be 
none  of  that  work  till  it's  gone  down,  and 
risin'  it'll  be  yet  awhile." 

Mr  Rochfort  looked  where  Hugh  was  look- 
ing, and  had  reluctantly  to  admit  the  truth 
of  this.  The  river  ran  far  below  them,  down 
in  a  narrow  steep -walled  little  glen,  one  of 
the  many  cracks  that  fissure  Lisvaughan's 
wind-swept,  limestone  plain.  Almost  each  of 
these  ravines  has  a  stream  in  it,  with  a  rem- 
nant of  trees  huddled  together  for  shelter 
from  the  storms,  whose  stress  they  dare  not 
meet  in  the  open,  and  with  ferns  venturing 
out  of  the  rock-clefts  to  droop  ample  fronds 
over  the  boulders  on  the  margin.  It  is  thus 
with  Feltragh  River,,  which  rises  in  the  moor- 
land towards  Shrole,  and  here,  at  the  Ivy 
Bridge,  comes  round  a  sharp  turn  down  a 
very  stony  stair.  On  the  other  side  of  the 
arch  it  broadens  slightly,  and  a  somewhat 
longer  reach  of  it  is  in  view ;  but  Hugh 
Christie  was  staring  up-stream,  where  the 
water  rushed  into  sight  abruptly  within  a 
pebble's  cast  of  his  station.  Swirling  and 
tumbling  it  came,  thrusting  thick  glassy 
strands    between     the     boulders,    or    seething 


THE    SHORTEST    WAY  257 

over  the  tallest  of  them  in  creamy  fleeces.  A 
roar  ascended  from  those  rapids  hollowly  and 
fitfully,  so  that  the  District- Inspector  looked 
up  and  down  the  road  occasionally,  thinking 
a  heavy  cart  must  be  lumbering  along. 

"There's  a  strong  current  in  it  now,"  said 
Hugh.  "  Man  nor  mortal  couldn't  stand  agin 
it  *T would  lift  a  dead  cow,  let  alone — any- 
thing else." 

"You've  chosen  a  good  place  for  a  drench- 
ing," said  the  District- Inspector,  for  the  wind 
was  driving  its  cold  spray  into  their  faces ; 
"but  I  don't  see  what  else  is  to  be  got  by 
staying  in  it."  And  he  was  moving  on,  when 
Hugh  said — 

"Just  wait  a  bit,  till  I  tell  you." 

Hugh's  clothes  had  a  sodden  appearance, 
as  if  they  had  given  up  trying  to  get  any 
wetter,  and  his  brown  beard  was  all  in  a 
silvery  mist  of  tiny  drops ;  therefore  he 
was  not  sensitive  about  the  dampness  of  the 
weather.  But  what  he  said,  though  the 
District-Inspector  did  wait,  was  nothing  more 
to  the  purpose  than  :  "  Last  night  was  power- 
ful dark ;  but  it  didn't  settle  to  rain  till  goin' 
on  for  one  o'clock — not  to  spake  of,  any 
way." 


258     A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

"  Well,  it 's  making  up  for  lost  time  now, 
at  all  events,"  said  the  District- Inspector,  and 
had  to  be  stopped  again. 

"  See  here,  Mr  Rochfort,  you  're  newish  to 
the  place ;  but  ax  anybody — ax  his  Riverence, 
or  Mr  Lennon  at  the  public,  or  Sargint 
Moore — and  every  one  of  them '11  say  I  was 
niver  known  to  raise  a  hand  to  do  murdher 
on  man  or  woman  —  or  I  might  say  child," 
Hugh  added  after  a  pause,  as  if  he  felt  that 
he  was  making  large  demands  upon  credulity. 

"  If  I  were  you,  Christie,  I  'd  go  home,  out 
of  the  rain,"  replied  the  District-Inspector. 

"Och,  no  matther  for  that.  I  was  goin'  to 
ax  you,  sir,  did  you  remember  the  McAulififes 
— the  widdy  and  her  daughter :  that  was  all 
of  them  was  in  it,  ever  since  you  come  to 
Lisvaughan." 

"Who  lived  at  Brierly's  cottages  over 
yonder?"  the  District- Inspector  said,  pointing 
towards  the  smooth-faced  crag  whose  jut  pre- 
vented them  from  seeing  any  farther  up  the 
Feltragh  River.  "  I  believe  I  do  remember 
the  old  woman  creeping  to  Mass — a  little 
lame  body ;  didn't  she  die  the  other  day  ? " 

"  Ay  did  she,  last  Friday  week  in  Shrole 
Union ;  for  the  daughter  that  kep'  her  out  of 


THE    SHORTEST    WAY  259 

it  went  wid  the  fever  in  the  spring,  and  her 
son  Dan  that  ped  their  rint  in  'Sthralia,  was 
niver  sendin'  her  a  word  iver  since.  So  she 
made  up  her  mind  he  was  dead  too,  and  she 
didn't  care  what  become  of  her  after  that ;  and 
she  broke  her  heart  fretting  in  the  Infirm'ry. 
But  last  night  Dan  landed  home  lookin'  for 
her,  as  plased  as  anythin'." 

"The  unlucky  devil,"  said  the  District- 
Inspector. 

"  You  may  say  that,"  said  Hugh  ;  "  but 
there 's  unluckier.  Sure  it  was  meself  met 
him  a  trifle  down  the  road,  and  on'y  for  that, 
'twould  ha'  been  nobody's  doin',  and  done  all 
the  same.  And  if  it  hadn't  been  that  out- 
rageous dark,  I  'd  never  ha'  seen  a  sight  of 
him.  But  sure  up  agin  ourselves  we  foosthered 
on  the  path,  and  I  wasn't  long  then  doubtin' 
who  had  the  discourse  out  of  him  about  the 
Divil  and  such.  So :  'Is  it  after  desthroyin' 
you,  I  am,  Dan?'  sez  I.  And  sez  he,  'To 
your  sowl,  if  it 's  yourself,  Hughey  Christie,' 
he  sez,  for  he  and  I  did  be  as  thick  as  thieves 
in  the  ould  times.  And  '  Come  a  step  along 
wid  me,'  sez  he,  *  for  I  can't  be  delayin'.' 
*  Sure  where 's  the  hurry  at  all  ? '  sez  I,  mis- 
doubtin'    what    mig:ht    be    in    his    mind,   if  he 


26o     A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

knew  no  betther  or  worsen  'Why,  man,'  sez 
he,  'isn't  it  goin'  on  for  ten  year  since  I  was 
at  home  ?  And  like  a  living  dhrame  to  me 
now  I  'm  thinkin'  I  'm  that  near  her  agin.'  So 
sez  I  to  myself,  '  The  Divil  's  in  it ' ;  and  sez 
I  to  himself,  *  Take  care  it  isn't  too  soon  you  '11 
be  gettin'  there,  since  you  couldn't  conthrive 
it  any  sooner.'  Sure  now,  you  'd  ha'  supposed 
he'd  ha'  had  the  wit  to  git  a  fright  at  that. 
But  all  he  said  was,  'Ah, — the  sisther,  poor 
Lizzie,  the  crathur ;  'deed,  then,  that  was  the 
great  pity  entirely,  and  a  cruel  loss  to  her 
for  sartin.  But  sure  that's  the  raisin  of  me 
comin'  home  at  all,  thinkin'  me  mother 'd  be 
left  too  lonesome  altogether.  And  what  wid 
th'  ould  stame-boat  bustin'  up  in  her  ingines,' 
sez  he,  *and  meself  takin'  bad  where  they 
stopped  for  repeers,  I  've  been  twyste  the  time 
I  'd  a  right  to  on  the  way.  She  '11  be  in  dhread 
there's  somethin'  happint  me.  Howane'er,  sorra 
a  much  fear  of  that  is  there  now,  Hughey  man, 
and  me,  so  to  spake,  at  the  door  goin'  in  to 
her,  thanks  be  to  goodness,'  sez  he. 

"And  niver  a  word  out  of  me  head  to  that. 
But  I  declare  to  you,  sir,  you  might  ha' 
thought  the  river  itself,  that 's  a  dumb  crathur, 
was  thryin'   its   best   to   tell   him,  accordin'  to 


THE    SHORTEST    WAY  261 

the  quare  mutterin'  like  it  kep'  on  wid  down 
below.  For  stumpin'  up  the  Quarry  Lane  he 
was,  that 's  the  nearest  road  to  his  house ;  'twas 
just  turnin'  into  it  I  met  him.  Nor  aisy  it 
wouldn't  ha'  been  any  ways  to  git  a  word 
into  the  talk  he  had,  and  it  mostly  all  about 
what  he'd  saved  in  'Sthralia,  and  the  fine 
counthry  it  was,  and  the  grand  thing  to  ha' 
got  away  out  of  it.  *  But,'  sez  he,  '  maybe  I  'd 
ha'  sted  in  it  a  while  longer,  if  I  hadn't  been 
afeard  me  ould  woman  here'd  get  mopin'  and 
frettin'  left  all  to  herself,  which  I  couldn't  abide 
the  thoughts  of  For  right  well  I  was  doin'  out 
there,'  sez  he,  'and  in  another  couple  of  years 
I  'd  ha'  had  a  goodish  bit  more  to  be  bringin' 
home  wid  me.'  And,  bedad,  you  could  see 
the  truth  of  that,  because  every  glimmer  of 
light  in  the  black  of  the  night  was  shinin'  on 
the  len'ths  of  the  gould  watch-chain  he  had 
wearin'  on  his  weskit.  '  Howiver,'  he  sez, 
*  I  've  plinty  to  be  keepin'  her  iligant,  and 
what  great  matther  about  anythin'  more, 
when  herself 's  the  on'y  mortal  crathur  I 
have  belongin'  to  me  in  the  width  of  the 
world?  Sure,  if  I  hadn't  her  to  be  spendin* 
it  on,'  sez  he,  '  I  'd  as  lief  be  slingin'  ivery 
blamed  ould  pinny  I  own  over  the  bank  there 


262     A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

into  the  rowlin'  river,  and  meself  after  it  — 
faix  would  I,  the  Lord  knows.' 

"  Well  now,  sir,  after  his  sayin'  that,  wouldn't 
tellin'  him  ha'  been  as  good  as  biddin'  him 
go  dhrownd  himself?  I  put  it  to  you : 
wouldn't  it  now?" 

"  It 's  hard  to  say,"  said  the  District-In- 
spector :    "  but  what  did  you  do  ?  " 

"  Stumpin'  along  wid  him  I  was,  lettin'  on 
I  was  listenin'  to  him,  and  all  the  while  I  was 
makin'  no  more  sinse  of  it  than  if  he'd  been  a 
bullock  I  had  dhrivin'  to  market,  that  would  be 
lettin'  a  roar  now  and  agin,  at  the  mischief 
knows  what.  For  thinkin'  to  meself  I  was  that 
unless  I  quitted  foolin'  him,  he'd  be  very 
prisintly  walkin'  up  to  his  door,  and  one  of 
the  Duggans,  that  he  niver  set  eyes  on  in  his 
life,  shoutin'  to  know  who  he  was,  and  what 
he  wanted,  and  tellin'  him  the  Union  was 
after  buryin'  his  mother  on  him.  So  at  last 
I  'd  twisted  up  me  mind  wid  the  notion  I  'd 
spake  out  the  next  time  he  said  anythin',  and 
if  I  did,  that  minyit  he  hit  me  a  clout  on  the 
back,  and,  *  Och,  Hughey,  you  bosthoon,'  sez 
he,  'herself '11  be  sittin'  this  instiant  of  time 
be  the  fire  in  there,  and  niver  thinkin'  I  'm 
comin'  along  a  few  perch  down  the  ould  road.' 


THE    SHORTEST    WAY  263 

"  And  sez  I,  '  Tubbe  sure,  Dan,  she 's  thinkin' 
no  such  thing  at  all ' ;  and,  for  that  matther, 
what  truer  could  I  ha'  said  ?  And  as  sure  as 
I  'm  alive,  I  'd  ha'  gone  on  wid  it,  I  would  so, 
on'y  'twas  just  then  we  come  round  the  turn 
opposite  them  Brierly  Cottages.  You  know, 
sir,  where  they're  cocked  up,  across  the  river, 
fornint  Fitzsimmons'  lime-kiln,  wid  ne'er  a 
handy  way  of  gittin'  at  them  except  be  the 
bridge ;  the  next  one  above  this  it  is — a 
wooden  fut-bridge  wid  a  hand-rail.  But  not  a 
sight  of  it  could  we  see  in  the  dark,  or  anythin' 
else,  on'y  the  light  burnin'  in  the  Duggans* 
windy,  the  way  it  used  to  be  afore  they  come 
there. 

"And  when  Dan  seen  that,  he  let  a  sort  of 
yell,  and  sez  he,  '  There  it  is — there 's  her  ould 
bit  of  a  lamp  lightin'  the  same  as  it  was  ever, 
and  meself  beholdin'  it  agin — glory  be  to  God.' 
The  Divil  's  in  it,"  Hugh  said,  with  a  fierce 
clutch  at  the  dripping  ivy-sprays.  "  If  the 
crathur  hadn't  been  so  ready  to  be  gloryin' 
God,  I  'd  ha'  found  it  in  me  heart  to  ha'  tould 
him  the  whole  thing  straight  out — goodness 
help  him ! — but  instead  of  that,  I  thought  to 
be  comin'  at  it  gradial.  So  I  sez  to  him, 
Icttin'   on    I    wasn't    mindin'   what   he'd   said, 


264    A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

*  Is  it  a  star  you're  lookin'  at?'  And  sez  he 
to  me,  *  Musha,  not  at  all,  man ;  it 's  somethin' 
a    dale    nearer    than   a   one    of    thim.'      And, 

*  There 's  things  farther  off  than  stars,'  sez  I ; 
and,  *  Belike  there  is,'  sez  he,  *  but  I  'm  not 
apt  to  be  throublin'  me  head  about  them  when 
me  ould  woman 's  waitin'  for  me  unbeknownst 
just  across  the  sthrame.  So  I  '11  be  sayin' 
good-night  to  you  kindly,  Hughey,  and  skytin' 
over.  Where  at  all 's  the  bridge  ?  I  can't  make 
out  a  stim  before  me.  Ah,  here  it  is ! '  sez 
he,  'right  enough  in  its  own  place.' 

"And  it's  the  truth  I'm  tellin'  you,  Mr 
Rochfort,  the  truth  I  'm  tellin'  you :  not  till 
the  man  was  grabbin'  the  rail  wid  one  hand 
and  mine  wid  the  other,  biddin'  me  good- 
night, did  the  recollection  come  into  me  mind 
of  anythin'  amiss.  And  then  I  dunno  rightly 
how  it  was,  but  the  same  time  I  got  considherin' 
the  way  'twould  be,  supposin'  I  held  me  tongue 
for  that  minyit.  For  if  I  didn't  tell  him  the 
one  thing,  nobody 'd  ever  tell  him  the  other, 
and  'twould  save  throuble  in  a  manner.  Och, 
I  dunno  what  come  over  me,  but  in  the  end 
all  I  sez  to  him  was,  '  You  '11  have  to  be  walkin' 
cautious,  Dan,' — God  forgive  me,  but  for  sure 
He  won't :   that  was  every  word  I  said." 


THE    SHORTEST    WAY  265 

"But  why  should  you  have  said  more?" 
asked  the  District- Inspector.  "The  bridge 
is  safe  enough.     Wasn't  the  man  sober?" 

"  Safe  enough,  begorra  ! "  said  Hugh.  "  If 
there  warn't  six  fut  smashed  slap  out  of  the 
middle  of  it  wid  the  big  ash-tree  buttin'  its 
head  through  it,  that  was  blown  off  the  top 
of  the  bank  in  the  storm  the  night  before  last. 
Six  fut  clever  and  clane,  and  maybe  six  times 
six  fut  under  it  to  drop  down  on  the  river 
and  the  rocks." 

"And  you  sent  him  over  that  in  the 
dark?"  said  the  District-Inspector.  "What 
on  earth  possessed  you  ? "  This  question, 
however,  was  merely  a  phrase,  for  he  seemed 
to  know  the  reason  very  well.  "Was  he 
killed?"  he  demanded,  with  the  inquest  in 
his  mind.     "Where's  the  body  lying?" 

"It's  that  I'm  watchin'  for,"  said  Hugh, 
his  eyes  still  following  the  rough  white  race 
below,  "ever  since  I  had  light  to  see.  He 
might  be  comin'  by  any  minyit  now.  But 
until  the  river  riz  wid  the  rain  a  couple  of 
hours  back,  I  doubt  was  there  water  enough  to 
bring  him  ;  there  was  no  very  great  dale  runnin' 
in  it  before  then.  So  I  wouldn't  think  he 
could  ha'  slipped  past,  and  I  not  to  notice." 


266    A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say,"  said  the  District- 
Inspector,  "that  you  went  off  and  left  the 
unfortunate  man  there,  without  so  much  as 
ascertaining  whether  he  was  dead  or  alive?" 

"Alive  is  it?"  said  Hugh.  "Sure  the 
wooden  bridge  is  a  good  bit  higher  than  this 
one ;  but  if  I  tuk  a  standin'  lep  off  of  the 
ledge  here,  it 's  breakin*  me  neck  I  'd  be  afore 
I  knew  where  I  was.  And  the  jagged  lumps 
of  big  stones  is  terrible ;  he  might  be  wedged 
in  between  two  of  them.  Och,  no!  for  all 
the  life's  left  in  him,  poor  Dan '11  ha'  had  a 
paicibler  night  of  it  up  there  than  meself 
had  here,  considherin'  quare  things  in  the 
dark  this  long  while.  Ay  will  he,  for  the 
sort  of  moanin'  and  screeches  there  was  in 
it  now  and  again  was  nothin'  on'y  the  win', 
and  the  rain  polthoguin',  I  very  well  know." 

"And  are  you  certain  that  the  bridge 
hadn't  been  mended?"  said  the  District- 
Inspector. 

"How  could  I  help  bein'  sartin  sure?  And 
I  goin'  by  it  on'y  a  while  before,  in  the  grey 
of  the  light,  and  Mrs  Duggan  herself  bawlin' 
across  to  me  that  they  were  kilt  thrampin' 
half-a-mile  or  so  afore  they  could  git  over 
anywheres." 


THE    SHORTEST    WAY  267 

"  But  if  you  didn't  wait,  how  do  you  know 
that  he  mayn't  have  turned  back?" 

"Wait?  Bedad  no,  it's  runnin'  away  down 
here  I  was,  as  fast  as  I  could  pelt.  But  what 
was  to  turn  him  back,  and  he  flourishin'  off 
wid  himself  in  the  greatest  hurry  at  all? 
You  might  ha'  thought  it  was  ten  fine  fortin's 
he  was  goin'  after ;  and  not  a  stim  to  see  a 
step  before  him  wid.  So  if  it  isn't  a  murdher, 
get  me  one.  And  that's  the  raison  I  was 
thinkin'  I  'd  a  right  to  be  mentionin'  it  to 
yourself,  sir,  or  the  Sargint." 

"  It 's  a  very  curious  case,"  said  the  District- 
Inspector,  beginning  instinctively  to  grope 
about  for  precedents,  and  finding  none. 

"  But  murdher  or  no,"  said  Hugh,  "  I  do 
be  thinkin'  diff'rent  ways  of  it,  and  some  of 
them 's  bad.  For  I  sez  to  meself,  '  In  a 
fine  disthraction  poor  Dan  'd  ha'  been, 
when  he  heard  tell  of  th'  ould  crathur 
breakin'  her  heart  in  the  House.'  And  then 
again  I  sez  to  meself,  'And  supposin'? 
Many 's  the  fine  disthraction  you  've  been 
in  yourself,  me  man,  and  niver  tuk  a  lep 
into  the  river  out  of  it'  And  arter 
that  agin  sez  I  to  meself,  '  But  sure, 
if    some   one  'd    ha'   up   and    shoved   me   over 


268    A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

unbeknownst,  so  to  spake,  sorra  the  blame 
I  'd  ha'  blamed  him,'  However,  since  the 
day 's  light'nin'  overhead,  little  doubt  I  've 
had  in  me  mind  but  that  I  'd  liefer  see  him 
comin'  along  the  road  on  his  feet,  disthracted 
or  not  disthracted ;  and  that 's  what  I  '11  niver 
behould,  if  it  was  twyste  as  clear.  Terrible 
clear  it  is  gettin',"  he  said,  glancing  furtively 
up. 

The  sky  was  all  one  floating,  drifting 
greyness,  dim  and  impenetrable  even  in  a 
place  rather  low  on  the  east,  where  many 
invisible  hands  seemed  to  be  straining  the 
vast  web  in  devious  directions,  so  that  it 
thinned  and  paled.  But  at  this  moment 
it  rent  there  right  through,  leaving  a  rift 
filled  strangely  with  a  liquid  radiance  of 
silver  light  glowing  into  amber,  which 
suddenly  darted  into  the  eyes  of  the  two 
men,  and  threw  their  shadows  across  the 
wet  road,  and  set  the  puddles  on  fire. 

"  Look,"  said  Hugh  excitedly,  standing  up 
straight  and  pointing  towards  the  water. 

A  wave  wider  and  wilder  than  the  others 
was  coming  down  the  river,  with  something 
lapt  round  in  it  that  made  a  dark  core  to 
its  turbid   brown.     But  this   was   borne   along 


THE    SHORTEST    WAY  269 

no  farther  than  to  the  first  ridged  step  in 
the  fleeting  rapids.  There  it  halted  and  lay- 
still,  while  the  turmoil  of  water  and  foam 
fell  away  from  about  it  in  a  flurry,  draining 
off  through  the  interstices  of  the  boulders,  or 
pouring  over  their  veiled  crests.  It  was  the 
body  of  a  man.  One  arm  hung  down 
against  the  straight  rock-ledge,  and  the  face 
looked  up  to  the  sun-gleam  so  naturally 
that  when  the  next  wave  rushed  by,  welter- 
ing on  and  on  and  on  interminably  over  it, 
the  District- Inspector  gave  a  gasp  as  if  some- 
thing had  been  taking  his  own  breath. 

"  There  he  is,  the  very  way  I  tould  you," 
said  Hugh.  At  the  sound  of  his  voice  the 
District-Inspector  turned  quickly,  and,  seeing 
that  he  had  stepped  up  on  to  the  low,  ivied 
parapet,  made  a  grasp  at  him,  but  was  not 
in  time  to  reach  him.  "Stop  where  you 
are,  Dan,  one  instiant  yet,"  Hugh  shouted : 
"for  here  I  am,  too!" 


THE    STAY-AT-HOMES 


THE    STAY-AT-HOMES 

ON  the  1st  of  March,  last  year,  it  might 
have  been  noticed  that  people  were 
continually  going  in  and  out  of  Letterowen 
Railway  Station ;  yet  the  number  of  passengers 
who  arrived  and  departed  by  train  was  certainly 
no  larger  than  usual.  The  station  is  rather  a 
new  feature  in  the  village,  children  of  smallish 
growth  remembering  a  time  when  its  fine  pink- 
washed  gables,  and  brilliant  flower-borders,  and 
curious  turnstile  did  not  exist ;  still  it  had 
been  there  long  enough  for  the  charm  of 
novelty  to  have  been  worn  off,  and  that  was 
not  the  cotnether  which  on  this  dusty-grey, 
east-windy  March  Sunday  drew  thither  so 
many  visitors,  who  had  no  tickets  to  buy, 
nor  other  official  business  to  transact.  What 
they  dropped  in  to  look  at  was  placarded 
upon  the  walls  of  the  bare  little  waiting-rooms, 
where  Jim  Neligan,  the  porter,  had  been  busy 
with  a  paste  brush  the  evening  before — so 
excessively  so,  indeed,  being  new  to  his  post 
and  zealous,  that  the  station-master  had  in- 
quired sarcastically  whether  he  intended  to 
s  273 


274     A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

paper  the  whole  place  over  entirely,  and  if  he 
didn't  think  he  might  as  well  stick  on  another 
layer  atop  of  the  first.  But  the  result  of 
Jim's  lavishness  was  that  wherever  you  turned 
there  were  the  thick  black  letters  announcing 
a  special  cheap  excursion  to  Dublin  on  next 
Tuesday  fortnight,  which,  as  everybody  well 
knew,  would  be  St  Patrick's  Day.  Peter 
Carroll,  who  helped  to  clean  lamps  at  the 
station,  and  his  mother,  who  scrubbed  floors 
there,  had  spread  the  report  of  the  adver- 
tisement overnight,  and  it  sounded  so  very 
remarkable  that  more  people  than  not  twirled 
the  turnstile  in  the  course  of  the  morning 
and  came  down  the  zig-zag  path  to  see  for 
themselves. 

The  inhabitants  of  Letterowen  are  not  great 
travellers.  Their  railway  is  only  a  branch  of 
a  branch  line,  and  while  most  of  them  have 
not  gone  farther  along  it  than  Brockenbeg 
Junction,  seven  miles  north,  by  no  means  few 
have  never  got  even  so  far.  It  is  a  place 
where  in  soft  weather  the  platform  frequently 
takes  a  pattern  of  bare  feet,  and  bare  feet 
seldom  set  out  on  long  journeys  by  rail.  As 
for  Dublin,  that  had  hitherto  seemed  a  goal 
which  remoteness  and  magnitude  made  hardly 


THE    STAY-AT-HOMES  275 

accessible  even  to  imagination.  Letterowen 
folk  considered  vaguely  that  it  would  need  a 
sight  of  money  and  a  powerful  length  of 
time  to  bring  you  thither,  and  what  might  be 
expected  to  befall  you  there  was  so  hard  to 
say  that  your  return  seemed  misty  indeed. 
Yet  here  was  a  printed  notice  boldly  promis- 
ing— "To  Dublin  and  back  for  two  shillings," 
and  going  into  circumstantial  details  about  a 
train  departing  at  six  in  the  morning  and 
arriving  at  noon,  and  leaving  again  at  mid- 
night. "Twenty-four  hours  for  twenty-four 
pence,"  it  ended  epigrammatically,  and  some 
of  its  readers  felt  no  manner  of  doubt  that 
each  one  of  them  would  be  an  hour  of 
rapture  unalloyed.  Others  were  less  confident 
Old  Dan  Molloy  had  heard  tell  of  there 
being  such  thick  fogs  in  Dublin  most  whiles 
that  people  "were  as  apt  to  walk  plump  into 
the  river  as  anywhere  else,  which  was  a 
terrible  dangerous  thing."  And  the  Widow 
Loughlin  had  been  told  that  "  thim  quare 
excursion  trains  as  often  as  not  got  shunted 
off  into  a  siding  before  they  came  to  any 
place,  and  the  crathurs  in  them  did  be  left 
there  perishin'  for  nobody  knew  how  long." 
Several     of    the     neighbours     also     wondered 


276    A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

whether  the  people  would  have  to  be  sitting 
in  their  seats  all  the  time  she  was  stopping 
in  Dublin  station,  for  that  wouldn't  be  very 
gay  at  all.  Mr  Farrell,  the  station-master, 
was  frequently  called  upon  to  clear  up  this 
or  some  similar  perplexity,  and  he  generally 
did  so  satisfactorily,  pointing  out  at  the  same 
time  that  the  terms  were  uncommonly  reason- 
able, I  do  not  think  that  they  struck  most 
of  his  hearers  in  just  that  light.  The  opinion 
rather  inclined  to  be  that  they  certainly  offered 
a  great  deal  for  the  money,  but  that  the 
money,  as  certainly,  was  a  great  deal  to  pay. 
For  pence  are  pennies  at  Letterowen.  Thus 
the  price  specified  for  the  four-and-twenty 
hours  had  in  some  cases  an  effect  not  in- 
tended by  the  company. 

"  Four-and-twinty  pence — goodness  guide  us  ; 
sure  I  would  be  four  days  arnin'  meself  that 
much  at  the  weedin'  or  stone-gatherin'  if  I  was 
on  full  woman's  wages  itself,"  said  Anne  Reilly, 
who  in  slack  seasons  often  had  to  be  content 
with  half  that  amount ;  "  and  to  go  spind  it 
away  between  one  mornin'  and  the  next,  as  if 
you  could  pick  it  up  handy  along  the  side  of 
the  road.  Musha,  long  life  to  them ;  I  hope 
they'll  be  gettin'  their  health  till  L  do." 


THE    STAY-AT-HOMES  277 

"  And,  mind  you,  the  two  shillin's  isn't  the 
whole  of  it — where 's  your  bit  of  food  comin' 
from?  Or  is  it  starvin'  you'd  go  there  and 
back  again  ? "  said  Anne's  niece,  Katty 
M'Grehan,  meaning  to  discourage  her  sister 
Maggie,  whom  she  suspected  of  harbouring 
extravagant  ideas,  which  Maggie  quite  under- 
stood, and  rejoined  to,  saying  with  some  heat : 
"  Then  is  it  aitin'  nothin'  at  all  a  body  'd  be, 
supposin'  they  was  sittin'  mopin'  at  home? 
'T would  be  all  the  one  thing  to  take  it  along 
in  the  ould  can.  For  the  matter  of  that  there 's 
nothin'  aisier." 

"  Nor  wastefuller,"  Katty  said,  sticking  ob- 
durately to  her  point,  with  her  worst  suspicions 
confirmed.  She  wanted  to  save  those  two 
shillings,  having  planned  a  treat  for  her  crippled 
father,  "  the  crathur." 

"Well,  glory  be  to  goodness,  Jimmy,"  old 
Mrs  Walsh  remarked  to  her  contemporary, 
James  M'Evilly,  who,  like  herself,  had  listened 
dispassionately  to  the  little  skirmish,  "  you  and 
me  is  too  ould  and  ancient  altogether  for  to  be 
botherin'  about  goin'  or  stayin' — the  trees  in 
the  hedges  is  as  apt  to  be  thinkin'  of  takin' 
runs  up  the  road,  and  it  saves  a  power  of 
throuble." 


278    A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

This  view  of  the  situation  prevailed  more  or 
less  among  the  elders  of  Letterowen,  but  not 
universally.  Here  and  there  an  old  body  held 
an  alert  and  agile  mind,  which,  according  to 
circumstances,  chafed  at  its  restraints,  or  made 
a  shift  to  get  about  in  spite  of  them.  Such 
was  the  case  with  Mrs  Rea,  whose  age,  never 
estimated  at  less  than  "rale  ould  entirely,"  is 
by  some  people  asserted  to  be  "every  day  of 
ninety  year."  She  herself  acquiesces  cheerfully 
in  any  figure  between  that  and  threescore  and 
ten.  Certain  it  is,  at  all  events,  that  she  seems 
quite  as  active  and  vigorous  as  many  of  her 
much  less  venerable  neighbours.  Still  they 
were  surprised  when,  a  few  days  later,  she  was 
amongst  the  first  to  announce  that  she  intended 
to  "thry  her  chance,  and  see  what  sort  of  a 
place  Dublin  might  be  at  all  at  all."  Behind 
her  back,  they  declared  that  it  was  "no  thing 
for  the  ould  crathur  to  take  upon  herself  to  be 
doin',"  and  that  "she  might  very  aisy  lose  her 
life  over  it  if  she  didn't  mind  what  she  was  at." 
And  some  of  them  called  upon  her  in  her 
house  at  the  end  of  the  post-office  row,  front- 
ing the  railway  embankment,  for  the  express 
purpose  of  remonstrating  with  her  in  scarcely 
less  outspoken  terms.     "  Ah,  woman  dear,"  they 


THE    STAY-AT-HOMES  279 

would  say,  "is  it  dotin'  you  are,  or  what  at 
all 's  come  over  you  to  put  such  a  notion  in 
your  head?  Sure  it's  losin'  yourself  ten  times 
you'll  be  going  that  far,  let  alone  breakin' 
the  ould  bones  of  you  clamberin'  in  and  out  of 
them  high  carriages,  and  up  and  down  them 
cruel  steep  stairs.  Or  else,  ma'am,  desthroyed 
you'll  surely  be  in  the  streets,  where  they  say 
an  ould  person  creepin'  about  is  as  apt  to  get 
dhruv  over  as  a  weeny  chucken  that  sets  itself 
up  to  be  runnin'  under  the  people's  feet,  and 
they  coming  out  from  Mass."  But  for  all  of 
these  she  had  the  same  answer :  "  Well  now, 
ma'am,  if  I  amn't  ould  enough  to  take  care  of 
meself  at  this  time  of  day,  I  dunno  when  I  'm 
likely  to  be."  To  which  piece  of  inconsequence 
they  commonly  replied,  "that  them  that  was 
wilful  'd  go  their  own  way,"  and  took  leave 
huffily,  unconvincing  and  unconvinced. 

Their  axiom  was  truer  in  Mrs  Rea's  case 
than  might  have  been  anticipated  from  her 
circumstances ;  for  she  was  a  solitary  widow, 
and  the  way  that  such  persons  go  is  often 
determined  by  quite  other  considerations  than 
their  own  wilfulness,  especially  if  there  be  a 
question  of  as  much  as  two  shillings  involved. 
Mrs  Rea,  however,  had  one  son  prospering  in 


28o    A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

the  States,  and  another  long  established  as 
under-gardener  to  very  high-up  quality  in  the 
county  SHgo,  and  both  of  them  were  "  rale 
good  lads  to  their  mother,"  which  set  her  above 
anything  she  or  her  neighbours  would  have 
called  want.  Just  now,  moreover,  her  "  odd 
few  ould  hens,"  had  been  laying  unusually  well, 
so  that  her  railway  fare  was  forthcoming  with 
little  difficulty.  The  chief  obstacle  she  en- 
countered was  public  opinion,  which,  although 
she  thought  as  lightly  of  it  as  might  be,  she 
could  not  completely  disregard.  It  is  impos- 
sible to  set  out  on  a  great  enterprise  with  an 
unperturbed  mind  in  the  face  of  unanimous 
prophecies  that  you  will  never  come  back 
alive ;  even  if  you  do  let  on  to  consider  them 
"all  blathers  and  nonsense."  So  Mrs  Rea, 
while  dealing  summarily  with  the  objections 
urged  by  her  ordinary  acquaintances,  would 
condescend  to  argue  the  matter  at  much 
length  with  her  especial  crony,  Julia  Carroll. 

Julia  disapproved  of  the  project  rather  de- 
cidedly for  her,  she  being  by  no  means  an 
opinionated  person.  "  'Deed,  now,  Joanna," 
she  said,  in  the  course  of  their  first  discussion, 
"  supposin'  I  had  the  chance  itself,  which  I 
havn't,  it 's  long  sorry  I  'd  be   to   be  settin'  off 


THE    STAY-AT-HOMES  281 

on  any  such  a  deminted  sthravade.  Sure, 
woman  alive,  them  that  has  the  age  on  them 
of  you  and  me  is  bound  to  be  travellin' 
prisintly,  whether  or  no,  far  enough  to  contint 
anybody,  unless  it  was  the  Wanderin'  Jew. 
So  where 's  the  sinse  of  tatterin'  about  afore 
thin  in  them  racketin'  smoky  trains?  I 
declare  to  you,  I  hate  the  noise  and  smell 
of  them  passin'  by  there,  goodness  forgive 
me,  and  it  only  the  nathur  of  them  after 
all." 

"  But  bedad  thin,  Julia,  that 's  the  very  thing 
I  was  considherin',"  said  Mrs  Rea.  "  For  if 
it's  stuck  down  in  the  one  place  we're  to  be 
all  the  while  till  we're  took,  we'll  get  that 
disaccustomed  to  everythin'  out  of  the  way 
we  won't  know  what  to  do  wid  ourselves  any- 
wheres else.  So  for  that  raison  we'd  a  right 
to  jaunt  about  now  and  agin  to  diffrint  places 
the  way  we'll  be  a  thrifle  used  to  what  we're 
strange  to,  and  not  amazed  and  moidhered 
entirely  wid  the  quareness  of  it." 

"  Well,  now,  I  'd  never  have  that  notion," 
said  Julia  Carroll,  "for  it's  the  quare  quare- 
ness and  the  sthrange  sthrangeness  I  '11  be 
throublin'  me  head  about  when  once  I  get 
the    chance    of  goin'   the   road    after   some   of 


282     A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

them  that's  wint  afore  me.  Sure  as  long  as 
there  was  the  ould  people  in  it  it  might  be 
the  most  outlandish  place  one  could  consaive 
and  I  'd  niver  notice  it,  I  'd  be  that  took  up 
wid  meetin'  them,  nor  you  wouldn't  aither, 
Joanna.  Morebetoken,  I  'm  often  thinkin' 
these  times  that  the  old  place  is  the  sthrangest 
of  all  since  they're  quit  out  of  it — and  no 
fear  of  gettin'  used  to  it,  sorra  a  fear ! " 

"  Maybe  that 's  very  thrue  for  you,"  said 
Mrs  Rea.  "  But,  talkin'  of  the  ould  people, 
there's  another  raison  I  have.  Do  you 
remimber  Biddy  Loughlin — thim  that  lived 
below  the  forge  ?  " 

"  In  a  manner  I  remember  her,  but  which 
of  them  was  Biddy  I  couldn't  say  for  sure. 
They  was  only  slips  of  girls  the  time  they 
stopped  here,  and  we  never  had  much  doin's 
or  dalin's  wid  them." 

"Well,  Biddy  married  a  man  of  the  name 
of  Jackson  that  lives  up  there  in  Dublin. 
Her  aunt  was  telling  me  she  heard  from 
her  last  Christmas,  Keepin'  a  fine  little 
shop,  they  are,  in  some  sthreet — I  must  ask 
her  the  name — convenient  to  the  railway 
station.  So  I  was  thinkin'  I  'd  write  her 
word   when    I    was    comin',    and    maybe    bid 


THE    STAY-AT-HOMES  283 

her  meet  me  at  the  thrain.  'Twould  be 
pleasant  to  see  a  body  one  knew." 

"  Middlin'  pleasant  it  might  be.  But,  saints 
above,  woman,  you  needn't  tell  nie  that 
you're  takin'  ofif  up  to  Dublin  for  a  sight 
of  Biddy  Loughlin,  that  I  believe  you'd 
scarce  know  from  her  grandmother's  ninth 
cousin,  as  the  sayin'  is,  if  she  walked  into 
the  room  this  instiant  minyit.  For  that  is 
too  onraisonable  a  raison  altogether." 

Mrs  Rea  looked  rather  defiantly  conscience- 
stricken.  "To  spake  the  moral  thruth,"  she 
said,  "  I  wouldn't  wonder  if  all  the  while  I 
wasn't  goin'  for  e'er  a  thing  else  except  a 
bit  of  divarsion ;  and  I  dunno  if  that 's  any 
great  sin."  "  Sure  not  all,"  Julia  Carroll  said, 
more  from  politeness  than  conviction,  for  she 
was  an  ascetic  both  by  nature  and  train- 
ing. "  Only  it 's  the  quare  divarsion  'd  take 
me  thravellin'  over  the  counthry  if  I  had  a 
grand  little  room  of  me  own  to  be  stoppin' 
paiceable  in."  She  glanced  covetously  round 
her  friend's  house,  in  which  they  were  talking. 
For  Julia,  having  lagged  superfluously  long 
behind  her  own  generation,  was  wearing  out 
the  fag  end  of  her  days  in  a  grand-nephew's 
family,    where    the    tolerance    she    met    with, 


284    A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

though  good-natured  enough,  could  not 
benumb  her  sense  that  only  in  this  world 
she  filled  up  a  place  which,  albeit  cold  and 
comfortless,  could  with  difficulty  be  spared 
to  her.  Therefore  she  looked  wistfully  round 
Mrs  Rea's  domain  and  said,  "Very  paiceable 
I  'd  stop  "in  it,  ay  would  I." 

"There'll  be  a  good  few  out  of  this  goin* 
on  it  besides  me,  you  may  dipind,"  said  Mrs 
Rea,  "  Dinny  Fitzpatrick  is,  for  one,  I 
know." 

"  Ah,  poor  Dinny 's  a  young  chap,  the 
crathur ;  where  'd  he  get  a  ha'porth  of  wit," 
said  Julia,  this  time  with  unintentional  severity. 
"And  be  the  same  token,  there  was  his 
head  went  by  the  windy.  Gettin'  on  for  six 
o'clock  it  must  be  if  he 's  lavin'  work,  and  I  've 
a  right  to  be  steppin'  along  wid  meself" 

"Is  it  wit?"  said  Mrs  Rea;  "the  lad  has 
plinty  of  that,  according  to  aught  I  ever  seen 
of  him.  If  there's  anything  ails  him,  it's  bein' 
a  thrifle  ugly  in  his  temper,  as  his  father  was 
before  him.  'Deed,  them  Fitzpatricks  have 
the  name  of  bein'  cross -tempered  people — 
dacint  and  cross -tempered.  That's  the  way 
he  got  quarrellin'  wid  Norah  M'Grehan,  she 
he   was    spaking   to   a   long  while,  just   about 


THE    STAY-AT-HOMES  285 

the  time  she  took  her  situation  in  Dublin. 
And  my  belief  is  he  has  some  notion  now  of 
makin'  it  up  wid  her,  and  that's  what's  startin' 
him  on  the  excursion ;  for  until  he  heard  tell 
of  it  his  mind  was  set  on  goin'  to  the  Malahogue 
Races.  I  'd  be  glad  if  the  two  of  them  got 
frinds  ag'in ;  poor  Norah  's  a  good-nathured 
little  girl,  the  crathur,  and  all  Dinny  wants 
is  a  bit  of  humourin'  to  keep  him  plisant, 
and  whativer  the  raison  may  be,  he's  mostly 
seemed  as  discontinted  as  an  ould  hin  in  a 
shower  of  sleet  ever  since  Norah  quit." 

Denis  Fitzpatrick,  whose  clear-cut  profile 
and  rough  tweed  cap  had  just  crossed  Mrs 
Rea's  greenish  pane  on  his  way  up  the  dusk- 
dimmed  street,  was  a  good  -  looking  sturdy 
young  fellow,  with  a  countenance  which  bore 
out  her  assertion  that  he  had  plenty  of  wit. 
She  was  right,  too,  in  her  conjectures  about 
the  motive  which  lay  at  the  bottom  of  his 
plans  for  St  Patrick's  Day.  At  that  very 
moment,  in  fact,  he  was  considering  how  he 
might  best  ascertain  Norah  M'Grehan's  Dublin 
address  without  compromising  his  dignity  by 
any  direct  inquiries  from  her  family,  who  had 
been  stiff  enough  for  some  months  past.  He 
thought  he  would  ask  ould  Mrs  Rea,  who  was 


286    A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

likely  to  know,  and,  failing  her,  Norah's  sister 
Maggie,  as  she  looked  several  degrees  less 
forbiddingly  upon  him  than  Katty  had  done 
since  the  falling  out 

But  after  all  he  need  not  have  troubled  him- 
self with  these  arrangements.  On  the  afternoon 
of  the  Sunday  before  the  holiday  Mrs  Rea  was 
happily  busy  over  her  fire  when  a  long  shadow 
fell  in  at  her  door  and  ran  up  the  wall. 

"Well,  Dinny,"  she  said,  recognising  it 
without  turning  her  head,  "and  what's  the 
best  good  news  wid  you  ? " 

"Och  nothin'  at  all,  ma'am,"  said  Dinny. 

"There  couldn't  be  less,"  Mrs  Rea  said 
cheerfully ;  "  I  'm  makin'  meself  a  bit  of  griddle 
bread  to  take  along  in  the  thrain,  and  I  '11  ha' 
plinty  for  you  in  it  too,  Dinny," 

"  Thank  'ee  kindly,  ma'am,"  Dinny  said, 
gloomily,  "but  divil  a  thrain  I  '11  be  thravellin' 
in." 

"  Mercy  on  us  all — what 's  after  happ'nin'  you, 
man?"  she  said,  whirling  round  in  consternation. 

"  Sure  because  I  'm  claned  out — stone  broke," 
said  Dinny.  "  Didn't  I  put  me  half-crown  on 
Black  Knot,  that  was  runnin'  yesterday  for 
the  Balmarina  Cup,  and  what  'd  suit  the 
baste   but   to   go   break   his  ugly  neck   at  the 


THE    STAY-AT-HOMES  287 

first  lep  ?  It  was  Sargint  Duffy  himself  bid  me 
put  every  penny  I  could  on  him,  and  he  knows 
people  that  knows  all  manner.  Two  pounds 
he  had  on  him  himself.    The  divil's  in  it." 

"You  great,  big,  stupid  ass,  you,"  said  Mrs 
Rea.  "Och,  well  now,  wouldn't  anybody  think 
an  infant  child  might  have  the  sinse  to  keep 
out  of  them  ould  barracks,  where  it's  bettin' 
and  foolery  the  len'th  of  the  day  ?  And  small 
blame,  maybe,  to  the  polls,  that's  nothin'  betther 
to  do,  and  plinty  of  money  to  be  pitchin'  under 
the  horses'  feet ;  but  for  the  likes  of  you  to 
go  settin'  up  to  ruinate  yourself!  Faix  but 
you  're  the  quare  fool."  Her  genuine  vexation 
at  his  mishap  came  to  the  surface  in  a  bubbling 
of  wrath,  while  her  plain  speaking  was  made 
all  the  more  natural  by  the  fact  that  it  seemed 
to  her  only  the  other  day  since  six-foot  Dinny 
stood  scarcely  as  high  as  her  table,  and  that 
in  Dinny's  recollections  Mrs  Rea  had  always 
been  a  rather  comical  old  personage,  from 
whom  desirable  sugar -sticks  and  cakes  and 
negligable  threats  and  reproaches  were  occa- 
sionally forthcoming.  "The  grandest  chance 
at  all,"  she  said,  "and  everythin'  settled — and 
Norah,  the  crathur.  Och,  now,  Dinny  Fitz- 
patrick,   if  yourself 's    not   the   most   unchancy 


288     A    CREEL    OF   IRISH    STORIES 

stookawn  of  a  gomeral  on  the  tovvnland,  just 
get  me  him  that  is?" 

"  I  Ve  raison  to  be  greatly  obligated  to  you, 
ma'am,"  said  Dinny ;  "  and  the  next  time  I 
want  somebody  to  gab  the  hind  leg  off  a  dog, 
I  know  where  to  be  comin'  to."  So  he  went 
away  in  high  indignation.  Whereupon  Mrs 
Rea  thought  ruefully  to  herself,  "Sure,  maybe 
I  'd  no  right  to  be  annoyin'  him,  and  he  dis- 
appointed wid  losin'  his  holiday  and  all,  the 
mislucky  bosthoon." 

Annoyed  him  she  had,  however,  so  seriously, 
that  next  evening  he  had  twenty  minds  at 
least  to  make  as  if  he  did  not  hear  her  calling 
him  across  the  street,  when  he  was  going  by 
from  his  work.  Only  that  there  seemed  to  be 
a  hoarse  sort  of  despair  in  her  "  Dinny,  man, 
Dinny,"  resentment  would  undoubtedly  have 
got  the  better  of  him  ;  but  as  it  was,  he  came 
over  and  asked  what  ailed  her. 

Mrs  Rea  looked  rather  dreadful,  for  she 
had  her  head  muffled  in  two  large  shawls, 
one  grey  and  one  black,  and  had  wisped 
round  her  throat  a  white  apron,  which  gave 
a  curious  conventual  touch  to  her  appearance. 
She  explained  that  she  was  destroyed  with  a 
very  bad  cold,  some  sort  of  asthmy  or  influ- 


THE    STAY-AT-HOMES  289 

enzy  she  thought  it  must  be,  it  had  come  on  so 
sudden,  and  her  corroborative  coughs  were  quite 
alarmingly  loud.  "  Ne'er  a  fut  '11  I  git  out  to- 
morra,"  she  said,  "  not  if  the  city  of  Dublin  was 
just  across  the  width  of  them  two  rails  there, 
instid  of  len'th-ways.  And  me  writin'  word  to 
poor  Biddy  Loughlin  I  was  comin'  at  twelve 
o'clock.     Lookin'  out  for  me  she'll  be." 

"  Sure  you  could  aisy  send  her  a  message 
be  some  of  them  that's  goin',"  said  Dinny. 
"Art  Walsh  is,  I  know,  and  his  sisther." 

"'Deed  but  I  wouldn't  like  to  be  disthress- 
in'  them  to  be  wastin'  their  day  runnin'  about 
after  me  messages,"  Mrs  Rea  said,  "nor  I 
wouldn't  like  poor  Biddy  to  be  losin'  her  time 
expectin'  me." 

"Well,  thin,  I  dunno  how  you  can  manage 
it,"  said  Dinny.  "  One  thing  or  the  other  you 
must  do — send  it  or  let  it  alone." 

"Where's  yourself,  lad?"  said  Mrs  Rea. 

"And  didn't  I  tell  you  I  hadn't  a  penny 
to  me  name?  Not  unless  it's  borryin'  I  was, 
and  then  where 'd  me  wages  be  on  Sathurday? 
I  wouldn't  mind  if  it  was  meself  only,  but  I 
can't  be  lavin'  the  ould  bodies  at  home  too 
short,  and  that's  the  end  of  it.  There's  no 
use  talkin'." 

T 


290    A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

"  Och,  you  gaby,  wasn't  I  manin'  you  to 
go  on  me  own  couple  of  shilHn's  in  place  of 
meself,  and  take  me  message?  Supposin' 
you  'd  nought  betther  to  do.  It 's  too  late  to 
be  writin'  be  the  post,  and  if  Biddy  doesn't 
get  word,  as  like  as  not  she'll  be  in  a  fine 
fantigue,  considherin'  I  'm  lost  and  sthrayed 
away ;  but  when  you  tould  her  that  kilt  wid 
a  cowld  was  all  I  was,  she'd  know  nothin' 
ailed  me.  Quite  convanient  she  lives  to  the 
station,  so  'twouldn't  delay  you  above  a 
minyit,  and  then  all  the  rest  of  the  while  you 
could  be  seein'  anybody  else  there  was,  and 
the  sights  of  Dublin,  and  everythin'."  Mrs 
Rea  was  so  bent  upon  recommending  her 
plan  that  she  forgot  her  hoarseness  and  bad 
cough.  However,  this  signified  little,  as  Dinny 
was  too  well  pleased  with  the  project  to  be 
critical  about  symptoms. 

"  I  give  you  my  word,  Judy,  woman,"  she 
said,  when  shortly  afterwards  relating  the  in- 
cident to  her  friend,  "  the  eyes  of  him  shone 
out  of  his  head  at  the  notion  like  the  two 
bright  lamps  in  the  tail  end  of  the  thrains 
runnin'  by  there  on  a  black  night." 

Thus  it  came  to  pass  that  Denis  Fitzpatrick 
was   after   all    one   of    the   party   who   on   the 


THE    STAY-AT-HOMES  291 

morrow  made  an  early  start  from  Letterowen. 
It  was  a  still,  soft  morning,  discreetly  hooded 
in  grey,  but  with  an  indefinable  atmosphere 
abroad,  as  if  the  air  were  full  of  some  secrets 
that  might  be  told  when  the  sun  got  a  little 
higher.  Quite  a  crowd  of  the  neighbours 
were  on  the  platform  seeing  the  excursionists 
off,  some  of  them  with  rather  envious  eyes. 
And  among  those  malcontents  was  Maggie 
M'Grehan,  who  felt  herself  aggrieved  by  her 
failure  to  capture  her  railway  fare,  notwith- 
standing that  she  had  the  prospect  of  a 
drive  to  the  Malahogue  Races  for  her  holiday 
amusement  while  her  sister  Katty  looked  after 
their  bedridden  father.  Her  mood  lightened, 
however,  at  the  sight  of  Denis  actually  start- 
ing with  the  rest,  because,  for  reasons  of  her 
own,  she  had  been  considerably  put  out  by 
the  stoppage  of  his  expedition. 

Mrs  Rea  did  not  appear.  Of  course  it 
would  have  been  unwise  of  her  to  venture  out 
with  her  cold,  although  her  violent  cough  had 
wonderfully  subsided.  But  she  saw  the  train 
whisked  by  as  she  was  making  herself  very 
busy  over  cleaning  up  the  inmost  recesses  of 
her  dresser ;  and  her  comment  was,  "  Ah, 
well ;    sure   'twould   ha'   been   a   pity  to  stand 


292     A    CREEL    OF   IRISH    STORIES 

in  their  way,  the  crathurs."  Her  day  after  this 
passed  without  noteworthy  incidents  until  about 
tea  time,  when,  as  she  and  JuHa  Carroll  were 
sitting  quietly  at  the  brightening  fire  something 
unwelcome  occurred.  To  all  appearances,  it 
was  nothing  worse  than  the  entrance  of  a 
pleasant-looking,  dark-eyed  girl,  in  a  becoming 
velvet-trimmed  hat  and  neat  cloth  jacket ;  yet 
the  tone  of  the  ejaculations  with  which  Mrs 
Rea  greeted  her  clearly  betokened  an  untoward 
event.  "  Och,  glory  be  to  goodness,  is  it  your- 
self here,  Norah  M'Grehan?  Whethen  now, 
how  did  you  come  whatever  ?  Isn't  the  childer 
at  your  place  took  sick,  the  way  you  couldn't 
git  lave  at  all,  so  Katty  was  tellin'  me — the 
last  time  you  wrote?" 

"But  sure  they've  got  finely  now,  and  the 
misthress  is  takin'  them  out  to  Dalkey  for 
a  bit  of  a  change.  I  wrote  home  word  on 
Sathurday.     Didn't  they  tell  you?" 

"  Deed  no ;  I  seen  naither  of  them ;  and 
there  I  am  after  packing  off  poor  Dinny 
Fitzpatrick  up  to  Dublin  this  mornin'  arly. 
Ragin'  he  is  this  minyit  of  time,  you  may 
depind,  findin'  nobody  in  it." 

"  And  what  'd  ail  him  to  be  ragin'  ? "  said 
Norah,     "  or     what     call  'd     he     have     to     be 


THE    STAY-AT-HOMES  293 

thinkin'  of  findin'  anybody  ?  He  knew  as  well 
as  I  did  I  was  comin'  down  to-day.  So  off  he 
wint,  and  joy  go  wid  him  and  the  likes  of 
him.  Be  good  luck  I  '11  be  out  of  it  on  the 
eleven  o'clock  train  to-night  afore  he's  back." 

"Well,  if  he  knew,  it's  a  quare  thing,"  Mrs 
Rea  began. 

"  Quarer  it  'd  be  if  he  didn't,"  Norah 
said,  interrupting,  "  when  he  heard  it  from 
Maggie  last  night.  Katty  was  tellin'  me — 
for  Maggie's  off  to  the  races — she  seen  her 
talkin'  to  him  outside,  so  she  was  checkin' 
her  for  havin'  anythin'  to  say  to  him,  not 
bein'  friendly  these  times,  since  he  took  up- 
on himself  to  give  me  impidence  about  the 
Molloy's  party.  And  Maggie  said  he  stopped 
her  to  ax  would  I  be  comin'  home  on  the 
holiday,  and  she  tould  him  as  plain  as  she 
could  spake  that  I  was.  So  that  was  the 
way  of  it,  and  the  best  thing  could  happen." 

"Well,  well,  well,  but  that  bangs  Banagher," 
Mrs  Rea  said,  not  disguising  her  chagrin. 
"What  was  he  up  to  then  at  all?  Troth 
now,  you  might  as  aisy  make  an  offer  to 
count  the  grains  of  sugar  meltin'  in  your 
tay  as  tell  the  contrariness  and  treachery 
there   does   be   in   another   body's    mind.     But 


294    A    CREEL    OF   IRISH    STORIES 

we  'd  betther  just  be  sittin'  down ;  'twill  be 
drawn  be  this  time.  Wait  till  I  reach  down 
a  cup  and  saucer  for  you,  Norah  alanna ;  it 's 
somethin'  to  git  a  sight  of  you  at  all  evints." 
It  is  to  be  feared  that  Norah  did  not  find 
this  tea  a  very  lively  entertainment,  although 
she  talked  away  at  a  great  rate,  telling  all  her 
Dublin  news.  Mrs  Rea  listened  with  only  a 
divided  attention,  the  other  half,  and  the 
largest,  being  occupied  by  the  thought  that 
after  all  she  might  better  have  gone  on  the 
jaunt  herself  A  sacrifice  thrown  away  is 
generally  an  irritating  and  depressing  subject 
for  meditation ;  and  Mrs  Rea's  seemed  to  have 
been  worse  than  merely  wasted,  as  she  said  to 
herself  that  "  all  the  good  her  stayin'  at  home 
had  done  anybody  was  only  harm."  These 
reflections  made  her  a  dull  and  silent  hostess. 
Then,  during  a  pause  in  the  conversation,  Julia 
Carroll  expressed  her  belief  that  she  herself 
"  as  like  as  not  wouldn't  be  dhrinkin'  tay  any- 
wheres by  next  St  Patrick's  Day."  The  little 
old  woman  spoke  in  a  hopeful  tone,  looking 
as  if  she  saw  many  pleasant  possibilities  in  the 
conjecture ;  but  a  slip  of  a  girl  of  Norah's  age 
and  experience  could  scarcely  share  that  view, 
and  the  remark  did  not  tend  to  cheer  her. 


THE    STAY-AT-HOMES  295 

However,  when  they  had  finished  tea,  Mrs 
Rea  went  out  into  the  grey  dusk  at  the  door  to 
collect  her  hens  with  the  few  crumbs,  and  a 
moment  afterwards  Norah,  who  was  putting 
turf  on  the  fire,  heard  a  sound  that  made  her 
drop  the  sod  out  of  her  hand  suddenly  enough 
to  set  the  white  ashes  fluttering  about  like 
snow-flakes,  while  the  golden  sparks  darted 
up  straight  like  shooting  stars.  It  was  Mrs 
Rea  exclaiming  :  "  Och,  mercy  be  among  us ! 
is  it  yourself,  Dinny  Fitzpatrick?  And  what 
at  all  brought  you  back  so  soon,  and  how  did 
you  conthrive  to  come  ?  "  To  which  the  voice 
of  Dinny  replied :  "  Sure,  ma'am,  when  I  got 
there  I  found  there  was  nothin'  to  be  keepin' 
me  in  it  whatsome'er,  so  one  of  the  guards  at 
the  station  was  a  dacint  chap  from  Youghal, 
and  for  the  sixpence  I  had  along  wid  me  for  a 
dhrink,  he  let  me  come  back  on  the  two  o'clock 
mail  that  stops  next  to  nowhere  for  man  or 
baste,  and  that  way  I  got  home  very  handy. 
And  was  you  seein'  anythin'  to-day  of  Norah 
M'Grehan?  But,  bedad,  'twould  be  just  of  a 
piece  wid  the  rest  of  it  if  she  was  on  the  road 
thravelHn'  back  to  Dublin  agin  now." 

"  Musha,  thin,  she 's  not  got  very  far  yet, 
that's   sartin.      But,   goodness   help  you,   man 


296    A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

alive,  wouldn't  it  ha'  been  a  dale  more  sinsible 
to  ha'  axed  the  question  afore  you  took  skytin' 
the  len'th  of  the  counthry,  and  nothin'  at  the 
end  of  it  ?  " 

"  And,  begorra,  didn't  I  ax  it  ?  Sure  I  knew 
there  was  some  talk  of  her  comin'  home,  so  I 
axed  her  sisther  Maggie  last  night,  and  no, 
sez  she,  sorra  a  fut  could  she  get  lave." 

"  It  was  an  onthruth  she  tould  you,"  said 
Mrs  Rea. 

"  Troth,  now,  I  had  me  doubts  it  was,  ever 
since  the  ould  woman  I  seen  at  her  place  in 
Dublin  said  she  well  remembered  Norah  writin* 
home  to  say  she  was  goin';  and,  if  I'm  not  mis- 
taken, it 's  not  the  first  ugly  turn  that  Maggie 's 
after  doin'  agin  us.  But  did  you  say,  ma'am, 
that  Norah  was  above  at  her  house?" 

"What  for  would  /  go  to  be  tellin'  lies  on 
you  ?  Sure,  not  at  all,  but  if  you  've  a  fancy 
to  be  standin'  on  the  one  flure  wid  her,  just 
step  your  feet  over  the  hins'  ould  dish,  and 
there  you  are." 

Dinny  stepped  accordingly,  and  immediately 
afterwards  found  himself  shaking  hands  vehe- 
mently with  Norah  M'Grehan,  and  inquiring 
what  way  she  was  this  long  while.  Norah 
replied  that  she  must  be  running  home  to  her 


THE    STAY-AT-HOMES  297 

poor  father  and  Katty,  for  she  'd  presently  have 
to  be  settin'  off  again  to  catch  the  Dublin  train. 
But  Mrs  Rea,  bustling  jubilantly  about  the 
dresser,  said,  "  Aisy  now,  honey.  You  '11  give 
the  poor  lad  time  just  to  swallow  his  cup  of 
tay,  and  then  he  '11  be  all  ready  to  go  along 
wid  you." 

While  Dinny  gulped  down  a  very  hot 
mixture  of  sugar  chiefly  and  grounds,  Julia 
Carroll  took  the  opportunity  to  draw  from 
the  events  of  the  day  a  moral  in  support  of 
her  favourite  contention  against  travelling  about, 
pointing  out  what  a  sight  of  trouble  it  would 
have  saved  if  Dinny  had  "stopped  paiceably 
at  home,  'he  v/ay  he  needn't  ha'  been  scaldin' 
and  chokin'  himself  for  want  of  a  few  minutes 
to  spake  to  his  frinds."  Mrs  Rea,  however, 
rejoined — "And  supposin'  Norah  had  took  it 
into  her  head  to  stop  paiceable  where  she  was 
too,  where  'd  the  both  of  them  be  this  evenin'  ?  " 
And  although  she  answered  readily  enough, 
"Sure,  where  Norah  was,  she  wasn't  at  home," 
the  argument  did  not  convince  anybody.  Cer- 
tainly not  Mrs  Rea.  For  when  Dinny  had 
just  started  with  Norah  he  wheeled  round 
suddenly  to  make  a  penitent  confession.  "  Och, 
murdher!     Och,    Mrs     Rea,    ma'am,    I     niver 


298     A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

remimbered  it  till  this  instant,  but  tellin'  you 
the  thruth,  I  niver  went  next  or  nigh  the  ould 
woman  you  bid  me  be  bringin'  word  you  wasn't 
comin' — cliver  and  clane  I  forgot  it,  and  went 
off  straight  to  look  for  the  Square — Well  now, 
wasn't  I  the  bosthoon  ?  " 

"Sure,  no  matther,"  Mrs  Rea  said,  blandly. 
"  It 's  little  Biddy  Loughlin  'd  be  troublin' 
her  head  about  me  goin'  or  stayin',  for  the 
thruth  is,  there  was  niver  much  love  or  likin' 
between  any  of  us  and  any  of  thim." 

Dinny  looked  hard  at  her  for  a  moment, 
"  And  another  thing  I  disremimbered,"  he  said, 
"was  to  be  axin'  you  after  your  terrible  bad 
cowld." 

"  Bedad,  Dinny,  I  'm  thinkin'  it  wint  off  to 
Dublin  along  wid  you,"  she  said.  "  Anyhow 
it's  quit  away  surprisin'." 

"  It 's  my  belief,  you  're  a  great  ould  rogue, 
ma'am,  yourself  and  your  cowld,"  said  Dinny. 
"  But  I  'd  as  lief  I  hadn'i  lost  thim  two  shillin's 
and  everythin'  on  you." 

"  Sure  what  matther  at  all  ?  "  Mrs  Rea  said 
again.  "  And  who  can  tell  but  I  mightn't  get 
as  good  a  chance  next  St  Patrick's  Day,  and 
be  travellin'  up  to  Dublin  iligant  after  all  ?  I 
wouldn't  wonder  if  I  was — there 's  time  enough," 


A    PROUD    WOMAN 


A   PROUD   WOMAN 

PETER  MACKEY,  the  Carrickcrum 
Doctor's  man,  introduced  me  to  Mrs 
Daly  one  early  summer  morning,  when  her 
table  was  flecked  with  small  quivering  shadows 
by  the  young  beech  leaves.  That  such  a 
ceremony  was  required  argued  me  a  stranger 
to  the  place,  for  "ould  Anne  Daly"  at  her 
stall  had  a  speaking  acquaintance  with  almost 
every  passer-by.  Her  rickety  deal  board 
stood  at  the  cross-roads  under  the  beech- 
tree  whose  trunk  was  built  into  the  wall 
behind  the  National  School,  where  she  had  a 
view  of  Carrickcrum's  street  on  either  hand, 
and  looked  up  the  road  to  the  bridge,  and 
down  the  road  to  the  police  barracks  as  well. 
She  was  a  picturesque  figure  in  her  black 
gown  and  bluish  apron ;  for  her  hair  made 
white  light  beneath  broad  cap  frills  hooded 
with  a  heavy  grey  shawl,  and  the  brown  eyes 
among  their  weather-worn  wrinkles  still  glanced 
as  brightly  as  the  waters  of  a  bog-stream. 
Her  knitting-needles  twinkled  up  at  them, 
in  and  out  of  the  dark,  rough  stocking-leg 
301 


302     A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

that  lengthened  in  her  hands,  as  she  sat 
perched  on  a  crippled  chair,  dexterously 
propped  against  the  beech's  roots.  Upon 
the  planks  before  her  glowed  a  small  heap 
of  half-a-dozen  oranges,  and  as  many  pink 
sugar-sticks  protruded  from  a  white  Delft  jam- 
pot. That  was  all  her  stock-in-trade,  and 
even  the  golden  dance  over  it  of  the  spangling 
sunbeams  could  not  give  it  an  opulent  aspect. 
What  caught  my  eye  at  once,  however,  was  a 
signboard  nailed  to  the  trunk  just  above  her 
head,  bearing  on  a  brilliant  ultramarine  ground, 
in  letters  of  fiery  vermilion,  the  words : — 

The  Sentrall  Imporeom. 

The  inscription  somehow  took  my  fancy, 
and  I  had  scarcely  beheld  it  when  I  seemed 
to  be  reading  in  the  catalogue  of  a  certain  art 
exhibition  :  "  No.  34.  The  Sentrall  Imporeom, 
by  Charles  Hamilton,  price ."  Where- 
upon followed  a  vision  of  the  corresponding 
work — the  quaint  old  country  woman  pre- 
siding over  her  simple  wares  beneath  her 
leafy  canopy  and  grandiloquent  label,  with 
perhaps  a  hint  of  the  village  street  in  the 
distance  to  explain  the  situation.  I  presaged 
"a  hit,"  and  felt  impatient  to  set  about  it  at 


A    PROUD    WOMAN  303 

once.  There  was  a  grass-patch  over  the 
way  that  would  conveniently  accommodate  my 
easel.  Then  I  wondered  who  had  put  up  the 
gaudy  signboard,  and  why ;  whether  in  pomp- 
ous earnest,  or  intending  a  jest  at  the  poor 
little  establishment :  and  what  might  be  Mrs 
Daly's  sentiments  on  the  subject.  So,  with 
a  design  to  elicit  these,  I  remarked  :  "  That 's 
a  fine  piece  of  painting  you  have  up  there." 

"  'Deed  now  is  it,  sir  ? "  Mrs  Daly  replied, 
darting  a  quick  look  at  me  to  ascertain 
whether  my  admiration  was  unfeigned,  much 
as  I  have  seen  her  prove  the  soundness  of 
her  pears  with  the  point  of  her  knitting- 
needle.  It  stood  the  test  with  effron- 
tery, and  she  proceeded :  "  That  was  Joe 
Lenihan.  He  done  it  last  winter  wid  the 
bit  of  paint  he  had  over  after  finishin'  Mr 
Conroy's  new  cart.  Joe 's  a  terrible  handy 
boy.  It's  got  a  nice  apparence  off  it,  to 
my  mind,  and  ne'er  a  harm  at  all  that  I 
can  see ;  but,  och !  the  Gaffneys  were  ragin' 
mad  over  it  —  them  at  the  shop  below 
there,  sir."  She  pointed  down  the  street, 
and  I  took  a  few  steps  backwards  to  get  a 
glimpse  of  its  single  plate-glass  pane,  which 
displayed    groceries,    hardware,   millinery,    and 


304    A    CREEL    OF   IRISH    STORIES 

other  things,  and  above  which  ran,  large  and 
yellow,  "  General  Emporium."  "  Ragin'  they 
were,"  Mrs  Daly  said  in  a  tone  that  was  half- 
gratified  and  half-rueful.  "  Sure  to  this  day 
they  won't  look  the  way  I  am.  But  I  dunno 
what  call  they  have  to  set  themselves  up  to 
be  the  only  Imporum  in  the  place,  and  they 
just  '  P.  Gaffney,'  sorra  a  hap'orth  more,  and 
plenty  good  enough,  for  them,  until  before 
last  Christmas  they  got  a  man  over  from 
Newtownbailey  to  do  their  paintin'.  There 
was  nobody  here  aquil  to  it,  I  should  suppose. 
So  now  they're  of  the  opinion  I  had  a  right 
to  ha'  hindered  Joe  of  doin'  me  a  Imporum  as 
well,  and  I  wid  ne'er  a  notion  he  was  plannin' 
any  such  a  thing.  Howsome'er,  he  made  a 
very  good  job  of  it,  sir,  as  you  was  sayin'." 

"  It 's  a  fine  morning,  Mrs  Daly,"  someone 
said  at  my  elbow,  and,  turning  round,  I  saw 
beside  me  a  tall,  respectable-looking  young 
man  in  a  grey  tweed  suit.  "  I  'm  just  after 
shooting  old  Mr  Carbury  dead  with  the  rook- 
rifle,  and  throwing  him  over  the  wall  into  the 
river  below  at  Reilly's,"  he  said. 

"And  is  it  yourself,  Mr  Ned?  I  never 
heard  you  comin'.  Well  now,  but  you  're 
terrible   wicked    to    go    do    the   like   of  that," 


A    PROUD    WOMAN  305 

Mrs  Daly  said,  as  placidly  as  she  had  praised 
Joe  Lenihan's  handiness.  "  It 's  hangin'  you 
they'll  be  this  time  for  sartin.  So  you're  off 
to  the  barracks?" 

"  Straight,"  said  Mr  Ned  gravely,  "  and  they 
needn't  offer  to  say  it's  manslaughter  either, 
for  it's  an  awful  murder.  You  might  have 
heard  the  shot.  But  to  see  him  rolling  down 
the  river,  over  and  over — I  didn't  wait  till  he 
sank,  for  it's  time  I  gave  myself  up  on  the 
charge  of  committing  a  cold-blooded  murder." 

He  strode  away  abruptly  with  an  air  of 
solemn  fuss,  and  Mrs  Daly  said,  looking  after 
him  commiseratingly :  "  He 's  a  son  of  the 
Clancys  at  Glen  Farm.  Asthray  in  his  mind 
he  is,  the  crathur,  and  scarce  a  mornin'  but 
he  comes  by  here  on  his  way  to'  the  polls 
wid  a  story  of  some  quare  villiny  he's  after 
doin'.  My  belief  is  he  dhrames  them  in  the 
night,  and  when  he  wakes  up  he  can't  tell 
the  differ  as  a  sinsible  body  would.  Anyhow 
he  niver  harmed  man  or  baste.  But  sure  the 
Sargint  and  all  of  them  up  there  knows  the 
way  it  is,  and  they  niver  throuble  their  heads 
about  his  romancin',  or  now  and  again  they 
put  him  up  in  the  guard-room  for  a  while, 
just  to  contint  him. 


3o6    A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

"  Only  one  day  be  chance  he  landed  in  on 
them  when  there  was  nobody  in  it  except  a 
young  constable  that  was  new  to  the  place, 
and  him  he  had  in  a  sarious  consternation 
wid  the  slaughtherin'  he  was  tellin'  him  of. 
Fit  to  raise  the  counthryside  he  was  before 
the  other  men  came  home.  It's  as  good  as 
a  play  to  hear  Joe  Lenihan  tellin'  it  'Deed 
now,  we'd  maybe  do  betther  to  not  be  takin' 
divarsion  out  of  the  crathur's  vagaries,  that 's  to 
be  pitied,  the  dear  knows.  But  sure  your  heart 
might  be  broke  waitin'  for  somethin'  to  laugh 
at,  if  you  was  to  look  black  at  everythin'  wid 
a  grain  of  misfortin  in  it,  for  that  comes  as 
nathural  as  the  grounds  in  your  cup  of  tay." 

So  Mrs  Daly  philosophised  ;  and  when  she 
had  finished  I  bought  an  orange,  and  went 
on  my  way. 

This,  however,  was  only  the  first  of  many 
visits  to  the  Sentrall  Imporeum.  My  wish 
to  paint  it  and  its  proprietress  continued,  and 
she  presently  gave  me  a  series  of  sittings, 
in  the  course  of  which  I  learned  a  good  deal 
about  her  character  and  affairs.  Mrs  Daly 
lived  close  by,  in  a  very  miserable  little  shanty, 
windowless  and  chimneyless,  built  against 
a    sunken    bank,    so    that    its     ragged    thatch 


A    PROUD    WOMAN  307 

was  on  a  level  with  the  roadway.  How  she 
lived  seemed  less  obvious  than  where,  as 
although  she  owned  three  or  four  hens,  and  did 
some  coarse  knitting  while  she  sat  all  day  at 
the  table  with  its  screed  of  sweets  and  fruit, 
one  would  have  estimated  the  combined  profits 
of  these  to  fall  far  short  of  sufficiency  for  even 
her  modest  wants.  Her  lameness  debarred 
her  from  more  active  industries,  she  having 
been  crippled  by  an  accident  at  the  same  dis- 
astrous period — about  thirty  years  before — when 
her  husband  died,  and  her  son  'listed,  and  her 
daughter  married  an  emigrant  to  the  States. 

Perhaps  it  should  be  reckoned  as  another 
disability  that  she  was  the  proudest  woman 
in  the  parish,  to  whom  an  offer  of  assistance 
seemed  an  insult,  and  who  would  accept 
nothing  from  her  neighbours  beyond  a  most 
rigorous  equity.  For  instance,  Arthur  Kelly, 
the  struggling  farmer  who  owned  the  shed  which 
she  inhabited,  would  gladly  have  allowed  her 
to  occupy  it  rent  free,  but  was  obliged  every 
week  compunctiously  to  receive  sixpence. 

I  myself  experienced  the  same  sort  of 
thing  in  my  trivial  dealings  with  her.  Small 
artifices,  prompted  by  baffled  speculations  as 
to    how     she     made     out     a     subsistence,    all 


3o8    A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

signally  failed.  If  I  contrived  one  day  to 
over-pay  for  a  purchase,  pleading  want  of 
change,  on  the  next  the  undesired  pennies 
were  sure  to  be  awaiting  me  inevitably  and 
inexorably.  She  refused  point-blank  to  sell 
me  the  crushed  and  over-ripe  gooseberries 
with  a  fancy  for  which  I  had  been  seized, 
and  she  insisted  upon  taking  a  farthing 
apiece  off  the  price  of  some  apples  that 
were  fully  half-sound.  In  fact,  I  was  soon 
compelled  to  desist  from  practising  any  such 
stratagems,  perceiving  that  our  sittings  and 
conversations  would  otherwise  abruptly  end. 
But  being  wise  in  time,  I  kept  on  good  and 
improving  terms  with  Mrs  Daly,  and  made 
my  studies  at  the  Sentrall  Imporeum  desul- 
torily all  through  the  summer.  Still,  when 
it  drew  to  a  close,  I  was  quite  aware  that 
our  friendliness  had  not  brought  me  a  step 
nearer  venturing  upon  any  attempt  to  under- 
mine her  rigid  principle  of  independence. 

This  being  so,  I  was  not  a  little  surprised 
when  one  wet  evening  at  tea-time  Mrs  Daly 
paid  me  a  visit  for  the  purpose  of  asking 
me  to  do  her  a  favour.  The  cottage  I  had 
taken  that  summer  stands  on  the  same  side 
of   the    road    as    her    tiny    cabin,    but    about 


A    PROUD    WOMAN  309 

half- a -mile  farther  from  Newtownbailey. 
It  belongs  to  the  brother-in-law  of  Peter 
Mackey,  Dr  Kennedy's  man,  which  is  how 
I  came  to  hear  of  it,  and  it  contains  no  less 
than  three  rooms  on  the  ground  —  literally 
ground — floor,  besides  two  little  attics  huddled 
up  under  the  thatch.  As  it  has  a  strip  of 
privet  hedge  in  front,  and  a  path  three  flag- 
stones long  leading  to  the  door,  and  a  hen- 
house leaned-to  against  one  end,  it  may 
be  considered  superior  to  the  neighbouring 
residences,  though  unsophisticated  mud  and 
straw  are  the  main  ingredients  in  its,  as  well 
as  in  their,  composition.  With  the  help  of 
loans  from  my  friend  the  Doctor,  and  some 
properties  of  my  own,  I  had  furnished  it  in 
a  style  which  I  believe  excited  admiration 
on  the  whole.  Yet  the  establishment  did 
not  reach  the  standard  of  what  was  deemed 
appropriate  for  "rael  quality,"  especially  as  I 
did  for  myself  single-handed,  with  only  an  old 
woman  from  next  door  to  "ready  up"  things 
in  the  morning ;  and  my  social  standing  was 
consequently  always  regarded  as  an  ambiguous 
and  perplexing  point  at  Carrickcrum. 

Mrs  Daly  arrived  with  something  evidently 
on  her  mind.     She  was  not  likely,  indeed,  to 


3IO    A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

have  undertaken  that  slow  and  painful  hobble 
through  the  pelting  rain  without  some  object ; 
but  she  seemed  to  find  much  difficulty  in 
disclosing  it.  At  last,  however,  having  re- 
peated incredibly  often  that  it  was  "  a  very 
soft  night  intirely,"  she  made  the  following 
more  pertinent  statement : — 

"  I  'm  after  gettin'  a  letter  to-day  from  me 
brother  Hugh's  son.  That  was  Hugh  went 
out  to  the  States  I  couldn't  tell  you  what 
ould  ages  ago,  and  be  all  accounts  he's  made 
the  fine  fortin  in  it.  But  the  time  he  went 
I  was  about  gettin'  married,  and  he  set  his 
face  agin  that  altogether.  No  opinion  he  had 
of  poor  Andy,  that  wasn't  to  say  very  well 
to  do,  and  maybe  not  over-steady.  So  he 
wouldn't  allow  me  to  be  spakin'  to  Andy  at 
all,  and  he  was  wantin'  me  to  go  out  along 
wid  himself,  for  Hugh  and  I  were  always 
frinds.  Infuriated  he  was  when  he  couldn't 
persuade  me ;  the  last  time  I  seen  him,  there 
was  no  name  bad  enough  for  him  to  be 
callin'  poor  Andy,  and  he  up  and  tould  me 
that,  as  sure  as  he  was  alive,  the  next  time 
he  set  eyes  on  me  'twould  be  beggin'  he'd 
find  me,  unless  it  was  in  the  workhouse. 
And  sez   I   to  him   he  mif^ht  make   his    mind 


A    PROUD    WOMAN  311 

aisy  that,  whativer  place  he  might  find  me 
in,  the  on'y  thing  I  'd  be  beggin'  of  him  'd 
be  to  keep  himself  out  of  it.  And  we've 
niver  been  friendly  since.  Sorra  the  letter 
I  've  wrote  to  him,  nor  he  to  me.  But 
now  there's  the  young  chap  writin'  me  word 
from  Queenstown  that  he 's  crossed  the  wather 
to  see  the  ould  counthry,  and  that  before  he 
wint  his  father  bid  him  go  look  up  his  Aunt 
Nan  while  he  was  at  home.  Sure,  I  scarce 
thought  he  as  much  as  knew  where  I  was 
livin'  these  times.  So  me  nephew 's  comin' 
to-morra  on  the  train  to  Newtownbailey.  .  .  . 
Well,  now,  you  know  me  house,  sir?  It  isn't 
too  bad  a  little  place  at  all,  but  you  couldn't 
say  it  was  very  big." 

You  certainly  could  not  say  so,  upon  almost 
any  scale  of  measurement,  or  with  any  approxi- 
mation to  truth,  I  reflected  ;  for  I  had  seen  its 
tenant  creeping  in  and  out  at  its  low  black 
doorway,  which  would  hardly  have  made  an 
imposing  entrance  to  an  average  rabbit-burrow. 

"And  I  was  thinkin',"  she  continued,  "that 
if  the  young  fellow  come  there,  it  might  be  apt 
to  give  him  the  notion  I  was  livin'  in  a  poorish 
sort  of  way — for  the  dear  knows  what  quare 
big  barracks  of  places  he's  maybe  used  to  at 


312     A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

home — and  I  'm  no  ways  wishful  he  'd  bring 
back  any  such  a  story  wid  him  to  his  father, 
after  the  talk  he  had  out  of  him  about  the 
workhouse  and  the  beggin'. 

"And  another  thing  is,  Hugh'd  say  'twas 
next  door  to  it,  me  sellin'  them  hap'orths  of 
sweets  outside  there  ;  he  would,  sure  enough, 
for  none  of  me  family  done  the  like  ever.  Och, 
I  'd  a  dale  liefer  he  'd  ha'  sted  away ;  but  I 
can't  put  him  off  of  comin'.  And  I  was  thinkin' 
— I  was  thinkin',  sir  .  .  .  ."  But  Mrs  Daly's 
further  thoughts  could  not  be  put  into  words 
without  much  stumbling  and  hesitation.  "  What 
I  was  thinkin'  was,  that  if  be  any  chance  you 
were  out  paintin'  the  way  you  do  mostly  be, 
sir,  after  dinner-time  to-morra,  you'd  be  willin', 
maybe,  to  let  me  bring  me  nephew  in  here 
just  for  the  couple  of  hours  he  has  to  stop — 
comin'  on  the  half-past  two  train  he  is,  and 
lavin'  on  the  five — and  loan  me  the  fire  to 
make  him  a  cup  of  me  own  tay.  For  then, 
sir,  you  see,  he  could  niver  say  a  word  to  any- 
body except  that  I  was  livin'  rael  dacint  and 
comfortable — ay,  bedad,  it  is  so,"  she  said, 
glancing  wistfully  round  the  ruddily-lighted 
room.  "  But  it 's  a  terrible  dale  to  be  axin' 
you;  and  very  belike  'twill   be   a   pourin'  wet 


A    PROUD    WOMAN  313 

day,  and  you  not  stirrin'  out,"  she  added,  look- 
ing behind  her  as  if  she  had  several  minds  to 
vanish  away  through  the  dim  rain  without 
waiting  for  an  answer. 

I  lost  no  time  in  cordially  assenting  to  her 
plan,  and  the  sympathy  inspired  by  a  sincere 
commiseration  for  her  dilemma,  caught  as  she 
was  between  two  scathing  fires  of  pride,  enabled 
me,  I  believe,  to  convince  her  that  I  really 
expected  to  derive  some  benefit  from  the  pro- 
posed arrangement,  as  I  pointed  out  how,  only 
for  her  presence  there,  the  house  would  be 
left  empty  all  the  afternoon,  a  probable  prey 
to  passing  tramps.  I  mentioned  also  that,  if  I 
happened  to  appear  upon  the  scene,  it  might  be 
in  the  character  of  her  lodger.  These  sugges- 
tions seemed  to  relieve  her  mind.  But  as  she 
was  turning  to  go,  a  difficulty  occurred  to  me. 

"  How  will  your  nephew  find  his  way  here, 
Mrs  Daly?"  I  said.  "  If  he  asks  it,  you  know, 
they'll  direct  him  to  the  wrong  place." 

"  Why,  sir,"  she  said,  "  I  was  intindin'  to 
step  over  wid  meself  and  meet  him  at  the 
Newtownbailey  station.  I  '11  get  him  aisy 
enough,  for  there  does  mostly  be  no  such 
great  throng  on  the  platforrm" — (arrivals  gener- 
ally  averaged    about    three)  — "  that    I  'd   have 


314     A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

much  throuble  sortin'  him  out.  And  then  I 
could  bring  him  along  back  wid  me  as  handy 
as  anythin'." 

"  It 's  a  long  walk  for  you,  though,"  said  I, 
for  Newtownbailey  is  a  good  two  miles  from 
Carrickcrum,  and  a  mile  was  a  mile  indeed, 
at  the  little  old  woman's  "gait  o'  goin'." 

"  Sure  I  'm  well  used  to  it,"  said  she,  "  I  do 
be  thravellin'  it  these  times  every  Saturday 
after  me  few  sugar-sticks.  At  Gaffney's  here 
I  was  gettin'  them  for  a  great  while,  but  ever 
since  I  set  up  the  Sentrall  Imporum,  they're 
chargin'  me  fi'pince  a  dozen,  and  that  I  couldn't 
afford.  Ould  Gaffney  himself  he  sez  to  me 
the  laste  they  could  do  was  to  be  puttin'  on 
a  pinny  to  the  price,  now  that  I  'd  took  to  keep 
such  a  grand  place.  But  fourpince  is  all  I 
have  to  pay  at  Newtownbailey." 

"  That  was  a  spiteful  trick,"  I  said.  And 
a  reply  came  from  without,  as  the  speaker 
departed  over  the  slippery,  wet  flags : 

"  What  can  you  get  from  a  hog  but  a  grunt  ?  " 
said  Mrs  Daly. 

The  morrow  was  not  wet,  as  she  had  fore- 
boded, but  rather  sultry  and  showery.  In  the 
morning,  with  the  help  of  my  friend  the 
Doctor's  wife,   I   made   some   preparations   for 


A    PROUD    WOMAN  315 

my  coming  guest.  Part  of  these  consisted  in 
hanging  up  on  my  wall-hooks  sundry  warm 
woollen  skirts  and  bodices,  and  a  fine  lilac- 
ribboned  cap,  with  respect  to  which  I  cherished 
designs.  Also  I  spread  a  table  with  the 
materials  for  a  tea,  comprising  a  richly-speckled 
barn-brack,  and  a  seed-cake  pinkly  frosted. 

I  meant  to  go  a-sketching  for  the  day,  but 
had  not  yet  started  when,  about  noon,  I  saw 
Mrs  Daly  toiling  up  to  the  door  laden  with  a 
large  basket — come,  no  doubt,  to  make  final 
arrangements,  before  proceeding  to  fetch  her 
nephew  from  the  station.  I  was  in  the  little 
room  adjoining  the  kitchen,  and,  as  the  door 
stood  slightly  ajar,  I  could  watch  her  unpack 
her  basket.  Evidently  she  had  determined  to 
trespass  upon  my  hospitality  only  to  the  extent 
of  house-room,  for  she  produced  several  sods 
of  turf,  besides  cups,  saucers,  and  tea-pot 
(which  held  a  drop  of  milk),  paper  wisps  .of 
tea  and  sugar,  and  half  a  loaf  of  bread.  These 
being  set  on  the  table,  I  saw  her,  to  my  mortifi- 
cation, remove  from  it  the  cakes  and  other 
eatables,  and  stow  them  away  carefully  out 
of  sight  in  a  press.  I  noticed,  too,  that 
she  laid  on  the  shelf  along  with  them  a  pair 
of  her   knitted   socks,   which,    I    conjectured — 


3i6     A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

rightly,  as  I  afterwards  learned  —  were  a 
present  to  me  and  a  peace-offering  to  her 
pride.  I  blamed  myself  for  not  having  foreseen 
this  preliminary  visit,  and  deferred  my  prepara- 
tions until  a  time  when  she  would  have  no  oppor- 
tunity to  cancel  them.  And  at  first  I  thought 
of  lingering  behind,  and  re-arranging  the  tea- 
table  when  she  had  gone ;  but  upon  reflection 
it  seemed  more  forbearing  to  leave  her  to  her 
own  devices  ;   so  I  slipped  away  unobserved. 

The  picture  of  the  Sentrall  Imporeom  still 
lacked  a  few  finishing  touches,  which  I  had, 
fortunately,  resolved  to  give  it  in  the  course 
of  that  day ;  and  I  was  at  work  down  there 
towards  three  o'clock,  when  Mrs  Daly  drove 
by  on  a  car,  sitting  beside  a  well-dressed, 
middle-aged  man.  She  wore  her  fine  Sunday 
shawl,  whose  ample  folds  of  cream  and  fawn 
colour  could  charitably  cover  many  defects  in 
a  body's  toilette,  and  she  held  up  her  head 
with  an  air  of  resolute  dignity,  which  grew 
almost  defiant  at  sight  of  her  residence  and 
business  premises.  She  gave  me  a  stately  nod 
as  she  passed,  turning  then  to  her  companion 
with  some  remark  which  was,  I  fancied,  explana- 
tory and  apologetic.  I  watched  them  round  the 
comer,  regretting  that  they  were  on  their  way 


A    PROUD    WOMAN  317 

to  such  frugal  fare,  and  hoping  that  the  enter- 
tainment might  go  off  satisfactorily,  despite  Mrs 
Daly's  refusal  of  my  contributions  to  its  success. 

The  afternoon  slid  by  rapidly  on  the  rollers 
of  my  work,  which  was  interrupted  by  the 
occurrence  of  more  than  one  sharp  thundery 
shower.  I  was  still  struggling  to  catch  the 
effect  of  a  sunbeam  blinking  Turneresquely  on 
a  little  pile  of  shrivelled  oranges,  and  snatched 
away  capriciously  by  shifting  clouds,  when  the 
car  re-appeared,  trotting  back  very  fast  with 
the  same  load  as  before. 

"  Sure,  me  nephew,"  Mrs  Daly  told  me  after- 
wards, "  found  himself  so  comfortable  up  above 
there,  and  was  in  such  an  admiration  of  the 
grand  little  room,  that  he  sted  talkin'  of  all 
manner  till  he  'd  left  himself  scarce  betther  than 
a  short  quarther  of  an  hour  to  git  his  thrain,  so 
he  bid  the  man  dhrive  for  every  cent  he  was 
worth.  He 's  a  queer,  outlandish  way  of  spakin'. 
And  I  sez  to  him  I  had  some  shoppin'  to  do 
in  the  village,  so  he  was  givin'  me  a  lift." 

Just  as  the  car  passed  between  my  easel  and 
the  beech,  a  fierce  flicker  of  lightning  quivered 
through  the  boughs,  causing  the  horse  to  shy 
with  a  wide-sweeping  swerve,  which  brought 
the  car-wheel  full  tilt  against  the  rickety  table, 


3i8    A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

whose  flimsy  boards  fell  asunder,  strewing  their 
burdens  around,  while  the  sudden  jerk  flung  the 
old  woman  on  the  road. 

For  a  moment  I  feared  some  damage  more 
tragical  than  that  sustained  by  the  ruined  stall ; 
but  Mrs  Daly  picked  herself  up  with  great 
promptitude,  and  without  any  apparent  injury. 
Her  presence  of  mind  was  evidently  unscathed, 
for  she  at  once  remarked,  calmly  surveying  the 
wreck — 

"Bedad,  now,  that'll  be  a  loss  to  whatever 
poor  body  owns  it." 

"  I  expect  it  will,  indeed,"  said  her  nephew, 
who  looked  much  more  perturbed  than  she. 
*'  It 's  considerable  of  a  smash,  anyway.  But 
look  here.  Aunt  Anne,  perhaps  you'd  have  no 
objection  to  taking  charge  of  the  dollars  to 
make  all  square  ?  Because,  if  you  're  really 
none  the  worse  for  your  fall,  I  must  be  making 
tracks  for  the  depot,  or  I  '11  not  get  on  the  cars 
this  evening  at  all ;  and  I  wouldn't  miss  them 
for  a  long  figure,  and  t'aat's  a  fact." 

He  was  pulling  our  a  oank-note,  but  his  aunt 
waved  it  away  superbly. 

"  Ah,  no,  lad  ;  not  be  any  manner  of  manes," 
she  said.  "  Sure,  what  matter  about  it  ?  They 
were  on'y  a  thrash  of  ould  sticks." 


A    PROUD    WOMAN  319 

"Speak  for  yourself,  Mrs  Daly,"  I  said. 
"The  person  they  belong  to  wouldn't  thank  you," 

"  That 's  so,  sir,"  said  the  stranger,  who  was  ob- 
viously divided  between  anxiety  to  do  justice  and 
to  avoid  delay.  "  I  wonder  now  would  you  have 
the  goodness  to  pass  this  on  to  the  proper  party  ?  " 

I  assented  to  the  proposal  with  an  alacrity 
which,  had  it  not  been  for  his  own  hurry,  might 
have  struck  him  as  suspicious ;  whereupon  he 
handed  me  the  note,  and  drove  away.  He  had 
placed,  I  was  gratified  to  learn,  ten  pounds' 
worth  of  confidence  in  me  at  first  sight. 

Long  and  elaborate,  however,  were  the  argu- 
ments which  I  had  to  use  before  Mrs  Daly 
would  permit  me  to  execute  his  commission. 
They  were  tedious  to  recapitulate,  and  the  most 
effective  of  them  was  probably  the  least  logical — 
that,  namely,  which  urged  the  exultation  to  be 
presumed  in  the  mean  Gaffneys  at  her  unre- 
trieved  disaster.  Her  scruples  yielded  to  a 
judicious  insistence  upon  this,  and  she  suffered 
the  making  of  her  fortune.  For  her  acquisition 
of  ten  pounds  was  nothing  less  than  that,  as 
will  be  readily  understood  by  anyone  who  has 
tried  to  live,  for  any  length  of  time,  on  the 
profits  arising  from  the  sale  of  a  dozen  half- 
penny sugar-sticks.     It  enabled   her  to  rent  a 


320     A    CREEL    OF    IRISH    STORIES 

much  superior  dwelling  with  a  window,  and  to 
invest  in  quite  a  large  assortment  of  miscel- 
laneous goods  for  exhibition  behind  the  panes, 
besides  adding  to  her  stock  of  "  chuckens " ; 
and,  according  to  latest  reports,  she  was  doing 
grandly.  But  the  Sentrall  Imporeom  no  longer 
exists.  A  few  days  after  the  accident,  the 
gaudy  blue-and-red  board  was  found  to  have 
been  removed  from  the  beech-trunk — a  deed 
with  which  the  parodied  Gaffneys  were  credited, 
and  at  which  Mrs  Daly  felt  rather  aggrieved, 
as  she  had  wished  to  set  it  over  her  new  door, 
having  given  up  the  hardships  of  an  open- 
air  stall.  However,  she  has  plenty  of  things  to 
pride  herself  on  these  times.  And,  as  she 
moralised :  "  It 's  the  quare  low-lived  tricks 
people  does  be  at  by  way  of  settin'  them- 
selves up." 


THE  END 


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